


The Risk of Making Amends

by wwe-charlie (alcrevier)



Series: An Uncharted Collection [1]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: A Whole Lot Of Shooting/Explosions, Associates To Friends To Crushes To Lovers All While On A Pirate Island, Becky-centric, Charlynch - Freeform, Dangerously Punny, Do You Believe In Karma?, F/F, Fluff Cushion, I'd Never NOT Give You A Happy Ending, Mega Miscommunication, Minor Character Death, Risk Galore, Seriously Becky Stop Making Jokes, So Punny It Needs A Second Tag, TW: Brief Mentions Of Suicide/Depression, The Real Adventure Time, Things Have To Go Bad Before They Get Better, Uncharted But Gay/Primarily Female, With A Side Of Baysha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 397,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcrevier/pseuds/wwe-charlie
Summary: [AU] On the brink of a massive breakthrough, a professional treasure hunter named Becky Lynch enlists in the help of a historian, a mercenary, and a navigator to find Captain Henry Avery’s long-lost pirate utopia. Of course, her constant tug of war with harsh memories and self-destruction could put it all in jeopardy, especially when the four women find themselves fighting for their lives against seventeenth-century pirate traps, a secret militia, and their own buried feelings. [Based on: “Uncharted: A Thief’s End”]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, comrades!
> 
> So, here's what I've been working on for a few weeks now (despite it being an idea in my head for years prior, just with different characters). I finally settled into knowing that Charlynch/4HW/Baysha really fit the look and feel of the plot, so I went ahead and outlined it, made art for it, etc. It'll likely end up ~twenty chapters if all goes to plan (always could change). These first four chapters will be an entire introduction, and then I'll be pausing uploads for a short period of time so I can write more and get the story's main part flowing. Bear with me, as this is my first massive multi-chapter in years. 
> 
> Also, I just want to forewarn everyone that it will be pretty angsty at times (I tend to write emotionally heavy scenes to test my own writing ability) and it's based on an adventure/shooting game. Therefore... trigger warnings include violence, depression, brief mentions of suicide in the future. Otherwise, I promise to give our ladies some nice arcs and fun where I can include it. 
> 
> Let's get to it.

MAROANTSETRA, MADAGASCAR

* * *

Knock.

_A gunshot is sounded._

_Once, twice, three times. Possibly even four times, but, truly, who’s counting?_

_Isn’t once enough? Isn’t it enough to make you run? To make you scared, or wonder who the intended target is? Isn’t once just one time too many to stomach?_

She flips onto her side along the creaky mattress, pulling a stained and paper-thin pillow over her head as damp, crimson hair gets matted to her face. Sadly, the uncomfortable, new position and last-ditch attempt at getting peace against her restless mind doesn’t help. The solitude it creates only acts as a catalyst to the unwanted, oncoming memory, and she’s stuck reliving it with sticky sweat coating her skin.

_Loudspeakers blare with sirens overhead. Shouts blend into the noise, in addition to the sound of unforgiving wood against limbs that echoes through the hall she managed to sneak out of only a minute ago. Vivid white lights flash along the large, disrupted prison courtyard, spotlights trying to focus on one escaped inmate at a time. The surrounding grass poking through the dirt beneath their feet is dead, their surroundings charred by recent fires set by the riot that roars through the rest of the vicinity. A riot of their making._

_Of_ her _making, actually. Of her own selfishness. A product of greed, and of faux determination. Obsession, more like._

_Her eyes flip through the options of paths set in front of her. Run to the left, back into the building? Guards with readied batons. Run to the right, down a path and under thick, yellow sewer piping? More guards, this time with automatic weapons. Either way, she has less than two minutes to figure out how to get up to the balcony where Rhea waits for them. It’s just past the scaffolding in front of her, the balcony sitting on top as if it’s the crow's nest of a castle. She knows there’s not enough time to go around, and it doesn’t matter how ill-prepared she is to make any of her normal moves. No matter how many months have passed without training, without a proper work out… she has to do it. She has to break free, and endure yet another risk._

_Now._

_Taking a chance, she runs straight ahead at the metal-barred scaffolding leading to the guards’ catwalk to normally oversee the inmates. It’s currently vacant, luckily, and makes her decision just a fraction easier ━ but not much. Nevertheless, there isn’t a mere second of hesitation before her palms stick to the slick, silver beams, and she pulls her body up with feigned images of scaling an ordinary, everyday ladder. She pretends she’s better than this. Better than the convict she’s been turned into._

_Although she’s made this prison a home over the course of however-many months, it still brings her shame to know she’s landed somewhere so harsh after being society’s definition of successful. To put it bluntly, prior to this, she’d made a good living for herself ━ not to say through ordinary means or legal career paths ━ and she’s always been a hard worker. From a young age, she had kept herself clothed, fed, and sheltered, all while raising her chin and pushing herself to get shit done. She’s managed perfectly fine, and, on the outside, she’s someone respectable; you’d never know who you were talking to unless she said so, and she liked keeping it that way._

_So, once she landed in this Panama prison in the center of age-old ruins crumbled by natural events, her life flipped on its head, and it’s due to not being sure about a damn thing like she used to be. Time and time again, she’s wondered if she could or_ should _pay off the guards and walk free with her best friend by her side. Fuck, she has the money._ Plenty _of it. They both do. But she supposes that a shared part of them settled into the idea of being shut away from society — enough room to think, yet not enough to go insane. They had each other, and that’s all they needed. Solitude, but together._

_God, that’s all they needed._

_The sneakers on her feet are practically sandals after months of wear, toes threatening to protrude through the front with the simplest of motions, like climbing the scaffolding. Still, she advances steadily with calloused palms and stinging arms, breathing deeply at the twinge of pain. Her focus leaves her act of climbing for a split second, and that’s a split second too long when you’re twelve feet in the air. As a result, she misplaces her foot and it slips off the beam, the entire mass of her body weight pulling down on one arm as it feels like it’s bound to pop from its socket. She lets a pained grunt out of her throat, similar to a cry without any tears threatening to spill from her eyes ━ surprisingly, at least._

_“Make it through,” her teeth grind as she regains her positioning. “Gotta make it through.”_

Her body shakes under the thin sheet, bicep quivering and clenching until her blood runs cold through her veins. Her fingers grasp the pillow over her face to push harder, knuckles turning white and fingers stiffening to the point of nearly locking in place. All in hopes of making it more difficult to let anything in, or to let herself breathe. To make the memories stop.

_Various foreign demands are shouted over the loudspeaker over and over, and she can only make out common phrases she’s heard throughout her time in the prison._

_“Get back in your cells.”_

_“Reinforcements inbound.”_

_“This is your final warning.”_

_“Get back in your cells.”_

Knock.

_But she can’t get back in her cell. She can’t abandon the one person who’s stuck by her for over a decade. The one person who’s stuck by her despite her not deserving that constant source of family, or companionship. After all, it’s her fault they’re engulfed in such a clusterfuck, and it’s her freaking obsession that’s brought this riot upon them. If she had only listened and stopped the madness ━ stopped the obsessing and the pining and every toxic trait that’s ever been born within her gut. None of this would’ve happened. She should have━_

_“Becks, let’s go, we’re running out of time.”_

_Her frantic legs twist her body in the direction of the desperate voice. Through a fresh round of blinding, white lights now pulsing like a concert, she can vaguely make out the shape of the person she’s looking for ━ the person she’d lost when the riot first started, and the only person she’d ever surrender to. On the other side of the extended scaffolding, she’s found her._

_Paige._

_So, she runs along the catwalk knowing she’ll meet Paige at the balcony’s base, feeling the stone quake beneath her hand-me-down sneakers torn from an inmate who died in the last riot. Truth be told, the obstacle she now faces begins to convince her that she’ll have the same fate. And maybe she should. Maybe it’s best that she gives up now and makes everyone’s life a bit easier. A bit less obsessive, a bit less pining. Maybe she should be a martyr._

_It’s not fair, though, and she knows it; she got both Paige and Rhea into this, and now she’s getting them out ━ one way or another. She’ll make sure they get out, no matter what._

_“Up the wall!”_

_Her throat feels like it’s on fire from breathing in soot and the remnants of dead grass mixed with kicked-up dirt. The voice that manages to come out sounds even worse than it feels. It’s evident that none of them thought this through, or at least figured what it’d entail. Hell, no one knows what a jailbreak calls for, or the guts it takes to pull it off despite knowing each and every goddamn consequence that could, ultimately, leave them dead._

_“The van’s out front,” she’s told in a tone that opposes hers; it’s calm and collected, but there remains an everlasting crack in the words._

_No one’s made of stone — not even Rhea, a ruthless bounty hunter they’d met there in the prison, A.K.A. the one who’d come to them with the riot plan._

_“We’re almost there,” Rhea says from a level up, reaching down from atop the exit balcony ━ the balcony that unlocks their freedom, as long as they can make it twenty more feet._

_There, they’ll brave the force of Panama’s finest as they slip into a white van with titanium walls. There, the three of them ━ with some extra muscle ━ will ride away with hopes of starting anew and accomplishing what they’ve set out after, what this whole riot was a product of. There, none of this will be in vain._

Knock. Knock.

_Except it is in vain, and it forever will be. It was doomed from the start. The universe doesn’t like cheaters._

_“Where’s Paige?” Rhea’s voice is confused but less than worried, like she’s already accepted something that Becky doesn’t want to say, or something that Becky isn’t even aware of._

_Vacant, brown eyes only stare at her before gradually widening, glancing around with her mouth agape in premature anguish. Paige was just behind her, huffing and puffing all the same, but she was right_ fucking _there. Deep breaths tumble from between her lips, tripping out like those exhales are shaking with a mirrored force as her knees and hands. Her limbs tingle while glancing over the balcony’s edge and into the prison yard._

_“I’m here!”_

_Becky wants to sigh in relief ━ she even feels one corner of her lips twitch into a grin ━ once she sees Paige sprinting around the scaffolding platform’s corner and toward the balcony wall. Immediately, Becky swallows the dryness collecting along her throat and takes her chapped lip between her teeth, laying her body down against the crumbling stone of the balcony so she can drape her better arm over its stubby wall._

_“Not the time to wander off, lass,” Becky gives her a tiny smirk as she reaches down, reveling in the sensation of chalky yet familiar skin against her hand, grasping her wrist, with Paige using their combined leverage to kick her feet against the balcony wall._

_In this moment, Becky makes the mistake of thinking they’ll be okay, and sincerely hoping they will be. Honestly, she should’ve known better; optimism isn’t something that brings peace to the world by simply trusting in it. Positivity isn’t something that organically sprouts from the ground, and it sure as hell isn’t something you can rely on. It won’t be there forever, so why should it be there for even a second? Unless you make it your mission to achieve positive outcomes, you’re just another pawn on the universe’s chessboard — and the universe doesn’t give a damn about what you want. It gives even less of a damn about what you_ don’t _want._

_The same thought reverberated through her friend’s gaze, and she could tell. For a moment, in the midst of eye contact with the surrounding world aflame, with everything else crumbling to dust, Becky detected a sparkle that begged the confirmation that they’ll move past this. It begged her to say they can grow and stop pretending to be heroes, stop pretending to be invincible, or people who set the world straight._

_The words were on the tip of her tongue, too, ready to weep and nod while saying they’ll stop the madness, stop the fighting, the chasing, the obsession, the pining. Those words faded out, forgotten and replaced without her own recognition, her own allowance. All that came out was: “We’re gonna make it.”_

_There’s that damned positivity again, and, for Becky, nine out of ten times it’s paired with karma. She had run out of luck a long time ago. Her free passes, scattered in the wind. Her everything, taken before her own eyes, and now slipping from her grasp._

_A gunshot is sounded._

_Once, twice, three times. Possibly even four times, but, truly, who’s counting?_

_Becky’s counting._

_She’s_ always _counting._

Knock. Knock. _Knock._

Her body jolts awake, fists clenching the sheets beneath her body as her mouth hangs open in desperation to fill her lungs again. She can’t see a thing, blinded by strands of her hair stuck against her eyes and between her eyelids, along her cheekbones and neck. A whole minute passes before Becky removes a clump of her hair from the side of her mouth by the tip of her middle finger, afterwards wiping her palm against her jaw and tucking the strands behind her ear. Her chest fills and caves, in the meantime, collecting herself with a growing pounding between her temples.

_Gunshots._

She winces with clenched teeth and presses the bottom of her hands to her eyelids, the blackened, floating color leaving no room for forgetting the memory’s end. Her heart aches, swelling and constricting as the sounds of sirens grow so loud she truly believes the authorities are outside her motel room, waiting to barge in after two years. Through the desolation as her eyes stay closed, she still sees the flashing lights of the beams trying to grab hold of convicts’ positions, and her neck cramps as her head lowers. Her breathing shallows, jaw flexing with pressure, pushing the bottoms of her palms further against tired eyes.

It all happened in slow motion. Paige lifelessly dropping, the guards laughing in vengeance with intent to stampede the lot and stop the escape, guns being drawn with a single cocking sound. Becky’s arm going limp, eyes going wide, heart being ripped from her chest within the span of a millisecond.

Within the span of four shots.

_“Becky, we have to go,” Rhea remains strong as the other woman simply stares down the side of the wall, like a violent prank has just been pulled on her and she’s staring at her dreams dying on the ground beneath where she lies._

_When Rhea detects no movement or a single sign of recognition, she quickly looks around and knows they’ve run out of time. Begrudgingly, she forcefully breaks Becky’s detrimental focus by wrapping an arm around her midsection and prying her from the dusty stone. Immediately, Becky’s arms and legs flail with a rapid “No, no, no” falling from her lips, resembling a scorned child losing their security blanket ━ the one thing they’ve held onto from the beginning of time, the one thing that gets them through the day when they’re sad, mad, scared, alone._

_“I can’t leave her!” she yells, tears rushing down her cheeks as she struggles to break free with nails scratching at the arm around her waist, but Rhea doesn’t let her._

_“She’s gone, Becky!” her voice reinforces, holding her tighter. “The sooner you understand that, the better. You can’t bring her back,” she feels Becky beginning to fade away from struggling, hiccuping and sobbing while becoming just as limp as her best friend._

_In an instant, with the defense draining from Becky’s movements, Rhea realizes she’s at a loss._

_“The best you can do is go on and live,” she calmly whispers into Becky’s ear, loud enough to be heard over the sirens but low enough to be personal._

_“Without…” her arms slump with heaviness, eyes glossed over and wide as the guards approach from the far side of the courtyard. “I can’t do it, I can’t. She…” a sob breaks from her throat, sounding lifeless and shattered. “I can’t go,” her voice even sounds watery, cracking before the latter half is entirely silent._

_This time, with authorities closing in and Becky threatening to risk everything they’d started tonight, Rhea gives her a curt, incredulous chuckle, staring at the disheveled woman who finally looks back with dirty, dark orange hair caked against her damp cheeks._

_“Are you coming, or not?”_

_Becky’s mouth opens and closes, lower lip quivering like a vulnerable infant as her injured arm vaguely gestures toward where Paige rests. No answer comes, and the guards are closing in._

_“End up like her, then. Suit yourself,” it’s said before Rhea backtracks and jumps down the side of the balcony in the direction of the white van, out of sight._

_Becky begins to cry hard, running her hands through her hair and tugging at the strands in distress. Gasping at the thought of leaving her best friend behind in the fray, her body cold and a victim of the universe they tried outsmarting. Paige didn’t deserve this. Paige never deserved to lose her life over something unachievable, in the first place. They were in over their heads from the very start. They’d bitten off more than they could chew from the get-go, and now the burden is Becky’s to bear. Now, until she, too, dies, she’ll have to carry the weight of knowing they could’ve stopped this._

_She could’ve saved her best friend, and what was left of herself._

_Her eyes go blurry and the screams of gruffy men fade off, everything sounding like she’s listening from underwater in a silicone bubble. Her head thumps as she sways where she stands, debating if she should simply jump back down into the courtyard and hold her best friend one last time, desperate and rough, drag her fingertips along smooth skin, and cry sweet nothings and repeated apologies against her temple until authorities pried her away to throw her back into a cold cell._

_Little did she know, her loneliness would begin here, and it’s yet again her fault. She could’ve changed the outcome, she could’ve listened when Paige voiced her worries ━ more than she had listened, the first time ━ and she could’ve made their dream of sitting back a reality. Their dream of hanging up their boots and retiring prematurely. The two of them, together._

_But she didn’t, and the universe shrugs its shoulders at the tears rushing down her dirt-stained cheeks. They leave mud in their wake, or maybe she’s just crying tears of black. It sure feels like it, and she wouldn’t be surprised._

_There’s a sharp snap that gets her attention, perhaps the sound of another gun being cocked, ready to shoot four plus rounds. And she’s the intended target, this time._

_“The best I can do is go on and live,” Becky looks down the wall, throat tightening and a sad smile being flashed before it’s broken by another oncoming sob. “I am so sorry.”_

_In a single motion, the sound of gunshots play tribute to how she feels when she turns and leaps from the balcony. When she lands, her feet run as fast as they can with minimal stumbling to the van that was already in the midst of taking off. Luckily, at the last minute, Rhea slides the side door open as shells pepper along the back of the white titanium, and Becky dives onto the grey floor while covering her head._

_Catching her breath and turning around, wide-eyed, she gets a brief, final look at the carnage: the flames erupting from the prison, the guards on the balcony, the lights flashing, the sirens sounding, and, inevitably, where Paige’s body lies. She gets a brief, last look at her obsession, her pining, and what she’s done._

_The door slams shut._

Knock. Knock. Knock. _Knock._

A lone tear escapes her eye, trailing down her nose before she pinches it and flops her hand on the mattress in front of her. She stares at the tan, paint-chipped wall, mesmerized.

The pitter-patter of raindrops hits the broken outdoor shutters at a constant rate. Knock. Knock. _Knock._ It nearly becomes an actual rhythm if you were to pay attention to the subtle drumming, the metal scraping of the shutters’ hinges wiggling, followed by the inevitable thump against the motel’s exterior once the wind joined in. To some, it could even grow to be tedious to listen to, like a grandfather clock ticking behind you as if it’s a reminder of how much time you’ve lost, or even the sound of someone tapping their foot against the hospital floor as they wait for imminent news.

It’s nerve-wracking, even more so when you’re under a blanket of loneliness. When you’re attempting to shut yourself away from the world and finally get an ounce of sleep that never seems to come. When you’re trying your hardest to ignore what’s going on around you, even if it’s a product of your own making. It’s nerve-wracking. _All_ of it.

It doesn’t help that she’s hauled up in a place she meant to refuge in with the one person she was able to call family. Okay, maybe not specifically here, but, had everything gone to plan, their trail would’ve ended up the same. They would’ve ran through the snow of Scotland together, jumping from cliff to cliff and climbing mountains like they used to. They would’ve swung across the icy rifts and hid from outside forces until finding shelter in Saint Dismas’ Cathedral, away from Lacey’s militia. And, like usual, Paige would’ve been pissed to find that the treasure didn’t come easily, that they’d have to sneak past more gunfire, and that they’d have to fly to Madagascar where they’d stay in this little, market-heavy town. Where they’d hide away together.

Had everything gone to plan, Becky wouldn’t be sleeping alone in this bed right now, and the nightmares would be more foreign than the country she’s residing in. She’d be resting soundly, recuperating in time for the following day’s task of sniffing out the esteemed Henry Avery’s newest trail. She’d be smiling despite her aches, despite the scratches and marks along her sunburnt skin. They’d be doing it all, side by side. _Together._

Instead, for the past two years minus a month or so, she’s spent her time ignoring that loneliness while drowning in her wounds, and it’s something she’s become accustomed to. Nowadays, it’s expected. Standard. Normal. It’s not like she’s become a shut-in or someone who’s harped on the past to the point of falling into the abyss of depression; she’s remained focused and on track, keeping herself healthy aside from the dangerous leaps she’s taken. That’s all part of the territory, though. It’s just that she’s managed to erase herself from society, only enough to focus on what she’s set out to do.

Without being distracted by anything waiting to reopen those mental wounds, she’s able to focus on what _they’d_ set out to do together, and the whole reason why she’s alone, in the first place.

A sigh escapes her throat as her eyes flicker shut, but she refuses to lie back down. In fact, she pushes herself out of the cheap, motel bed entirely, and its headboard slaps back against the wall once it’s unoccupied. Becky’s feet ache with the whine of being overworked, the previous day demanding miles of walking along uncharted, heated rock and sand. Her muscles scream in the same manner, but not enough to accept a painkiller. She’s decided that this is the price she has to pay, and it’s something she deserves to sulk in.

She might’ve escaped that Panama prison twenty-two months ago, but she swears she’s still paying for it. The self-destructive part of her _hopes_ she is.

So maybe she’s not trapped behind thick, iron bars like she was supposed to for another ten years due to trespassing on preserved land. Physically, she’s free. But being trapped inside one’s own mind is just as deadly ━ if not more — and it’s the least bit freeing. In your mind, it’s possible you don’t hear sounds. It’s blank. Desolate, and untouched. You don’t hear fellow inmates hitting their heads back against the bars. You don’t get to listen to terrible, unsolicited karaoke performances until a guard comes to stop it. In your mind, it’s quiet. And, if it’s not… that’s sometimes an even bigger problem. Either way, it’s all you. It’s all on you.

It’s all on Becky.

Her fingers reach for the crusted temperature knob of the motel’s shower, the action inviting a stream of chilled water onto the yellow tile before she carefully undresses and slips inside. The water stings her back, and her eyebrows furrow while her face contorts ━ just another reminder of the life she’s chosen to excel in. There are sores along her skin as a result of peeled burns, emitting their own pain when cold water hits them at a precise angle, and she has to jump away multiple times before easing herself back under the shower’s stream.

Water hits her face directly once she’s turned toward the shower head, fingertips gently scratching the skin of her cheekbones to wash away the early morning’s hindrances. In the grand scheme of things, she knows it’s not enough; a stream of fresh water won’t cleanse her of the internal ailments she faces, nor will it earn her some sound rest, but it’s at least enough to remind her that there’s room to become refreshed. Renewed. Rejuvenated. Even if you can’t erase your past fully, you can still start off with a blank slate each morning, and _that’s_ enough to push forward. Little by little, she can heal.

Damp feet press down against the floor beside the shower stall before sliding toward the mirror. There she stands, wet hair messily draping over her shoulders with her eyes surrounded by a faint indigo. Naturally, she ignores it, and glances down at her right arm patterned with an assortment of bruises. They surround a single gash, as well ━ more like a chunk taken from her outer forearm by a garden shovel. It causes her to seal her lips as she pokes at it, the permanent salt on her finger burning the wounded, tender skin that strives to heal.

Irritation surfaces at the reminder of how absentminded and passive she’s become during her ventures. Becky had always been the one to lecture Paige on the amount of focus it took to do things right, or to take steps to ensure she’d never fuck up enough to risk it all. They had spent countless nights arguing about one thing or another, like when Paige grew a little too jump-happy and grappled onto a low-hanging branch before tumbling down a muddy hill that ultimately lead to a sinkhole. Or another time when the dark-haired woman claimed she was entirely focused before carelessly trespassing into an unwelcoming village of savages.

They’d escaped each time by the skin of their teeth, and Becky made sure to reinforce the idea of focus, patience, and determination ━ all in moderation.

At the end of the day, Paige was equally as obsessed as Becky remains. The only difference between the two women surfaced in that prison, and it was when Paige had the courage to voice what they were both thinking: _“Do you ever wonder if we’re in over our heads with this one?”_

She did then, and she still does now.

Lately, it seems like she’s forgotten the concepts of moderated focus, patience, and determination, herself, and it yesterday resulted in her hand grasping onto a loose piece of rubble before toppling down the side of a cliff, falling ten feet until her elbow crashed into a boulder and she flopped onto the ground, face first. Actually, she’s more grateful for the lone elbow injury than she is irritated by it; the extent of her pain could be much worse, perhaps even nonexistent if her life was cut short by the fall. She could’ve ended up like Paige back in that prison, too, and, by all means, she _should’ve_ been the one who took that loss of life. After all, Paige wanted to quit, so why couldn’t _she_ had been the one to move forward in a new direction?

Still, Becky’s current irritation mainly comes from the knowledge that she can’t do this alone. If she wants to finish what she started, she’s going to have to rope someone else into it. And, _God,_ she wishes she didn’t have to. She wishes she could hang up her boots like they’d spoken about, and she wishes she could forget. She wishes she could live with Paige’s death being in vain due to her raising the white flag and giving up on their mission.

But she can’t.

Without her best friend and partner, she’s tried making it through this task time and time again, barely scraping by to finish the simplest of hunts. Lost city in the desert? Almost got stuck in a dust storm before finding herself knee-deep in quicksand, but she made it through. Infected humans running rampant on an island plagued by a cursed sarcophagus? Took multiple missiles before nearly drowning, but she made it through.

This one, though? The search for Henry Avery’s lost treasure is the _opposite_ of a simple task. For treasure hunters, this is the culmination of their previous adventures. Those were the trial runs. This is the boss fight. This is their endgame. The cream of the crop. The grand finale, and their final trick.

For Becky Lynch, it’s her way of making sure her friend’s death wasn’t for nothing ━ or even for the sole purpose of giving her a wake-up call. Finding Henry Avery’s treasure would lift that weight off her shoulders, alleviate the burden she’s bore for nearly two years. It’d bring her sleep again, and less nightmares. In her dreams, she’d see Paige smiling, smug and proud with her dark aesthetic opposing the whites of Heaven.

Then again, after all of this, she’s not sure where Heaven exists, or if it even does.

She frowns at herself in the mirror, lowering her chin and turning away.

Wearing an ensemble made of a clean, black tank top and camouflage pants, her feet take her past the bathroom’s threshold and back into the motel room’s mainspace. She’s instantly met with her half-assed wall of regions and clues, complete with tattered maps, journal entries, and even notes written by seventeenth-century pirates who took part in Avery’s games.

Still, even with the countless amount of knowledge set before her, laid out along the broken desk with balled-up papers angrily tossed on the carpeted floor, she’s at a loss. The trail here in Madagascar has gone cold ━ well, not “cold” as much as it’s simply taken a new direction ━ and she’s beginning to wonder just how strenuous this undertaking is bound to become.

Her throat grows sore with watery eyes coming to fruition. Here, her frustration tries to get the best of her, and, here, she lets it.

“Captain Avery?” the chuckle that exits her throat is dark. “More like Captain _Frivolous Bastard Who Can’t Sit Still For One Goddamn━”_ her nails dig into the edge of the desk and she bows her head between her outstretched arms, leaning against the piece of furniture as it clunks against the wall.

Becky forces deep breaths, teeth previously gritted to the point of her jaw ticking until she releases the tension and stretches her arms out by bending lower.

“You knew this wouldn’t be easy, Becks,” she tells herself. “Take a breath, babygirl.”

The sentiment brings a dull smile to her face, and it’s enough to shove herself into a standing position, hands now on her hips while facing the board of clues. It’s time to make a move.

Suddenly, she knows what she has to do. Actually, less suddenly, more admittedly. For the longest time, she’s tried to put it off. She’s tried keeping to herself and staying under the radar, making sure not to bother anyone, or shine a light on herself. And, for the longest time, she actually managed to handle her own battles while accomplishing what she’s aimed for.

But it’s finally become too much, and it’s time to find someone to help. Whoever she seeks needs to have passion. They need to hold an understanding for the art of adventure, for treasure hunting or at least be willing to get down and dirty for the sake of a good story. They need that focus aforementioned ━ in addition to that patience and determination.

She needs to be able to trust them, and that’s why she won’t go searching for just anyone. No; Becky knows exactly who she’s after, and how she’ll bring them into the equation.

So, with a decision made, her hands snatch the thick passport off the desk’s corner, along with her wallet and motel key. As usual, her olive-colored backpack has been pre-stocked, full of fresh clothes and the essentials for cases like these where she needs to run out on a whim. Besides, it’s not like she has any other plans considering that the trail’s next stop is north-east of the coast, pointing to an unknown island. Maybe it’ll be best to have some human interaction before she heads off to a deserted island in the middle of nowhere ━ _especially_ if her first choice turns down the offer.

Lastly, she grabs a good wad of local currency from the desk where she kept it for future use. Her fingers initially flip through it, brown eyes scanning the amount before she’s settled on leaving. It’s more than enough to pay for another two weeks at the motel, and, for now, that’s plenty of time.

When she exits the motel room, the rain has already turned into a warm drizzle, and the sun is in the process of rising for the day. Judging by its current phase and, really, the lack of pedestrians on the sidewalk, she’d assume it’s around six o’clock in the morning, but part of her wishes she could pretend she wasn’t sure, just so she wouldn’t have to remember that ━ once again ━ she couldn’t sleep more than a couple of hours.

Taking a turn along the main building’s corner, she’s faced with a smudge-covered glass window that resembles that of a drive-thru. There’s a hole cut out at the bottom of the glass pane, the same man that’s been here each night for weeks still sitting within the small box as he eyes Becky up and down without a word. He doesn’t have to say anything, either, because her actions are straight to the point; her hand slaps down the wad of cash with a corner peeking beneath the glass so he can swipe it, her eyebrows raising with the man’s head nodding immediately.

She watches as the man slides her money into the box adorned with her room number, keeping it safe for when payment is due for the following day. Oddly enough, considering how run-down the place is, she trusts him; they’ve been nothing but hospitable since she’s arrived, despite minimal words being exchanged between them. After all, she’s only picked up on a handful of words from other languages, and none of them make a full thought yet. Throughout her years of treasure hunting, that’s been her only downfall. She can talk pirate history and culture until she’s blue in the face, alphabetically name every major pirate in previous centuries, but current-day culture and knowledge? Not her strong suit.

And that’s yet another reason why she tugs her bag further over her shoulder, destined to catch a flight to Norway where she’ll find the one person who knows everything there is about history. The one person she’s kept tabs on for instances like this, and the one person she trusts to get the job done when she, herself, can’t:

A historian named Charlotte Flair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For starters, thanks for giving it a read (I say since you've made it to the bottom note), whether or not you have intentions of sticking around for the rest. It's been a bit since I've written something lengthy or with such passion, but Uncharted is the only gaming franchise I'll never get tired of. If you've played (or have seen tidbits), then you'll be familiar with some scenes I've included/revamped, but otherwise I've made a unique story, I promise. 
> 
> Anyway, I know chapter one was kind of a doozy in terms of happiness, but, hey, we have to start somewhere. Becky's certainly a complex character in this, so there's a lot to unpack -- which we'll get to eventually.
> 
> For comments/questions, feel free to comment here or message me on Tumblr (URL provided in the story notes), and otherwise enjoy your day/night/morning/etc. I'll be back relatively soon to add to this "introduction."


	2. Chapter 2

OSLO, NORWAY

* * *

Intent, brown eyes scan the entrance of a cream-colored building, the exterior’s pale brick only heightened by the bright air of the otherwise-overcasted sky. The surrounding area is plagued by afternoon fog, and she feels a thin mist dancing across her exposed skin as she stands yards in front of rustic doors. The scenery is welcoming for a change, she decides; no dry heat, no dust, no traps, no collapsing rock structures, no loopholes, and certainly no gunfire.

In her hand, she holds a yellow visitor’s pass and flips it between her fingers in a certain rhythm, half-heartedly distracting herself from the impending conversation’s plausible outcomes. Additionally, fiddling with her hands has become a slight habit within the past two years. It’s often that people deal with a major loss by growing addicted to a particular substance, and/or many fall into the pit of despair and hopelessness, but Becky? She grew to play with her fingers when she’s nervous or anxious, even absentmindedly. Combined, her acute nerves and general tendencies make for an unstoppable force, and that’s why she started fidgeting with the pass right as it was handed to her, earning a quirked eyebrow from the head of security.

Truthfully, her apprehension is an outcome of expecting the worst from this spur-the-moment visit. She hadn’t seen Charlotte Flair in years, and let’s just say their last encounter didn’t go so smoothly. Whose fault was it? As per usual, Becky had royally fucked herself by choosing the easy way out ━ no matter how pure her intentions were to keep the tall blonde safe. In a short amount of time, Charlotte had become important to her ━ being another person who impacted her life enough to require Becky’s signature, immovable protection. Unfortunately, that protection has forever been less than self-explanatory, and it next to always comes off as ignorance.

Abandoning someone without a single word or lone “By the way…” doesn’t necessarily align with the concept of having strong morals or heartfelt intentions. And that’s what she did. To an outsider ━ from Charlotte’s point of view ━ it looked like she scrammed, like she ran away without a mere hint of where she was heading, and it appeared out of sheer desire to work on her own. Plain selfishness. Charlotte was duped. Cut off. Left alone.

During that time frame, Paige and Becky’s adventures had come to a halt with her black-haired partner traveling back home to meet with her family. She’d asked Becky to go, no doubt, but the Irish woman didn’t want to sit still ━ not even for a week or two ━ and ended up staying behind to enlist in a local reporter’s assistance for what she figured would be a small, abbreviated expedition.

 _“You want a good scoop?”_ she lured her in with a knowing smirk; she could see in Charlotte’s eyes that she was desperate to chomp on something good, something dangerous and secretive. _“I’ll tell you what. You help me, and, believe me, you’ll get that scoop.”_

Ultimately, Becky’s dismissal of her rival treasure hunter’s do-or-die mindset almost cost both of them their lives, sending the two women over cliffs in a Jeep, down hills of mud with guns blazing on each side, and into a polluted river where their vehicle, within seconds, exploded. For a moment, they floated in that warm, muddy water, with shrapnel dropping around them, the flames from the Jeep’s unfortunate demise sitting atop the stubby waves as the pair zoned out.

But when the blonde cautiously turned to her… _shit._

God, the look on Charlotte’s face still stains her mind more than any muddy hill or blood spot ever could. Suddenly, it wasn’t the explosion that shook Becky to the core, and it wasn’t the fact that they just escaped a shoot-out against a whole militia within an inch of their lives. What shoved Becky over the metaphorical cliff of self-questioning was the sadness in Charlotte’s eyes — the disappointment, and even traces of resentment.

It was the kind you earn when you hurt someone in a way they would’ve never expected, the utmost surprising betrayal that stings deep within your heart to the point of physically feeling it constrict your chest and stretch atop your skin. Your palms sting, like a nail is driving through the center of each, and your eyes water despite every ounce of strength you drum up to stop them. Like you pulled the wool over someone’s eyes, only to have it backfire tenfold.

No matter if Becky had intended to put them in harm’s way, there’s no question she did, but it’s hard to explain to an outsider of the treasure-hunting field that explosive competition is all part of the business. It’s not something you take lightly, either.

So, she didn’t bother trying to explain, and those soul-permeating eyes were engraved into Becky’s memory to forever torment her.

Even in present day, that look’s everlasting impact was enough pain to cause Becky’s hesitation when she reached the airport back in Madagascar. This was all going to be a surprise to the blonde. Becky was never one to pick up the phone and call another person, and she knew Charlotte would hang up, anyway. She’s sure that Charlotte doesn’t want to see her, and, quite frankly, it’s another reason why Becky wishes she wasn’t so hellbent on finding Henry Avery’s treasure; if she wasn’t so determined ━ so _deranged_ sometimes ━ then there wouldn’t be a need for assistance, or to put herself in uncomfortable positions.

It’s an idea that makes her want to laugh, though; she can spend countless hours hanging from the bottoms of cliffs atop jagged rocks of an ocean shore, but talking to someone who likely wants nothing to do with her? No, thanks. In the end, she really _is_ human.

Fuck, back then, Charlotte was _so_ disappointed, and that confused, baffled, derailed, you-name-it expression on her face was enough for the redhead to tuck her tail between her legs, and take the other woman back to a dock where she’d leave her there, just to continue the mission on her own. No heads-up, no words exchanged. That was it. For Becky, that _had_ to be it.

Now, four years have gone by, and, since then, Charlotte has transitioned from a part-time reporter, to a teacher at a small European university, to a professor at the University of Oslo, eventually to ask for a lesser role at the school. Today, she spends her days lecturing and showing tour groups around Oslo’s Norwegian Museum of Cultural History. To Becky, it seems the blonde has also had a hard time sitting still judging by how often she jumps from career to career, but who is she to presume? Still, after their single rendezvous together and up until she was tossed into that heat-box of a prison, she had kept tabs on the blonde and her whereabouts, all while harboring a heavy heart clenched by the silent stare of disappointment she was bestowed.

It seems she gets those often.

With a deep breath, Becky prepares herself to enter the museum. She straightens her back out as she stands in place upon the rugged sidewalk, tugging on her leather jacket just a hair tighter while making herself appear more presentable. The tip of her tongue drags along her lower lip once she’s ready, clearing her throat and muttering, “Okay, then,” to herself.

Two steps later and she’s forcing a smile, ready to make her entrance. Five steps later and she’s passing through two large doors that creak as she holds onto them, not paying mind to the heaviness of their boards on her bruised arm as her eyes meet a massive Viking ship in the center of the room.

“Holy ship,” the words hardly make it into the air, simply mouthing them before her lips stay parted in awe.

Although she’s never been one for history outside of her own, pirate realm, she can certainly admire the craft of past civilizations and what artifacts like these meant to their society. Its intricacy, and the artisanship, the dedication and hard work it took to construct something so massive, so _demanding…_ it’s incredible. Sometimes, she wishes she could’ve settled on being a historian like Charlotte has chosen for her path in life. She wishes she could achieve maximum enthusiasm by studying things that came before us, or how they shaped who we are today.

That’s never been her, realistically, and it’s because she’s more of a hands-on type of person; studying an object without handling it doesn’t give her the same thrill. She has to be able to trace their outlines, feel their crevices and contours, firmly enough to create a rendering in her brain but gently enough to treat such objects like they’ll crumble through her fingertips if she treated them any less delicately ━ and, by all means, some _would_ crumble.

Diverting away from the intimidating ship, her eyes dot across the stark-white walls while wandering onto the curved ceiling. The structure resembles an old church renovated into something different, being bright with tall windows and light colors to emphasize the dark wood of the center ship. And, boy, does it work for the layout, so much that she has to remind herself to close her mouth a second time.

The sound of multiple sets of footsteps approaching her ━ approaching the door where she stands ━ regains her attention, and she glances past the departing group to see Charlotte standing around, now free of work with a pamphlet in her hands. She looks stunning, in her own essence, Becky muses; the blonde wears a businessy outfit consisting of tight, dress pants, and a simple, white button-up as her hair cascades over her shoulders. Whether or not it’s her normal, work attire, Becky has to wipe away her own smile and make sure the faint blush fades from her cheeks, gradually preparing herself to approach.

“Here we go,” Becky eventually whispers to no one in particular, putting on a brave smile that portrays a side of her that’s hardly come out in recent years: verbally confident, borderline cocky, and all too persuasive.

It’s originally an unknown feeling, but she rapidly settles into the character as she now stands at Charlotte’s side, the Viking ship set in front of them. In her peripherals, she notices herself being side-eyed, the blonde’s posture stiffening as her tongue presses to her inner cheek, and the pamphlet in her hand is curled into a cylinder.

Yeah, she’s still pissed.

“Nice ship,” her words are playful and innocent, enough to pique Charlotte’s interests while looking at the antique with pursed lips, then she reads the plaque. “Estimated build year: AD eight-twenty. Excavated in nineteen-oh-four. _Impressive.”_

“What do you want?” it’s hushed and immediate, not glancing in Becky’s direction.

Her terse engagement in the conversation earns a clever grin from Becky, entering her prime, convincing element of stirring up a topic that dodges the elephant in the room until it becomes too much to ignore. Her signature move, as Charlotte recalls; deflecting was always Becky’s strong suit.

Charlotte knows she’s playing into something the other girl is cooking up by just replying, but, at this point, she’s already prepared to get over whatever-it-is that this conversation revolves around, so she willingly subjects herself to Becky’s games. Quite frankly, she knows how Becky operates, and she remembers every single second of their time together. Sometimes ━ or _most_ times ━ she wishes she didn’t remember, but she supposes that’s more so for deeper reasons she’s not willing to own up to. After four years, you try to forget those deeper reasons, or bury them until they’re hidden from both yourself and the surrounding world. Until they’re gone completely, and can’t be used against you.

Now, with Becky being here, that specific anguish from years prior is resurfacing, and her stomach churns with a sourness.

“You know, I’ve never been here,” Becky fully ignores the question and stares up at the old ship.  “All my time studying treasures and historical figures…” she makes an indifferent expression, shifting her jaw with a quiet, self-directed “Huh.”

“‘Historical figures’? _Pirates,”_ Charlotte corrects. “Call them what they are.”

“Even pirates make history.”

She has a point, but the taller girl doesn’t entertain it; she won’t give Becky that satisfaction.

“You haven’t stepped foot in here because you’d rather keep treasures to yourself than let the public eye study them for knowledge. Or, should I say their _real_ value,” nevertheless, she fights back with a statement in the form of a rhetorical question, Becky’s smile widening with her eyes narrowing.

“You say it as if I respect those treasures any less than you do,” she tilts her head to the side, laying into her argument. “It’s the same. We just go about it differently.”

Charlotte’s fists clench at her sides with the pamphlet being crumpled, and she takes a breath before relaxing. She wants to argue that it’s a selfish way of life, that it takes away the true meaning of discovery, and that Becky’s tactic of treasure hunting is straight-up thievery, but she doesn’t bother. This is Becky Lynch, after all ━ a famed individual in the world of collecting, someone known for her skills and knowledge of pirate themes while doing whatever it takes to get the job done. She’ll never change, and Charlotte understands it’s not even her place to attempt changing the other girl. She’s just like this, and she has been for a long time.

The silence following her own statement must have shaken the debate until it shattered to nothing, leaving Becky to sigh lightly.

“We need to talk.”

“I have another tour in thirty,” it comes with the annoyed motion of crossing her arms.

“This won’t take long.”

It’s Charlotte’s turn to sigh, arms untangling and slouching by her sides before pausing and giving Becky a pointed look, nonverbally telling her to get on with it.

“We’re going to need a room a little more private than this,” she grins convincingly, and Charlotte has to suppress a groan.

Instead, it transforms into another, bigger sigh, her chin tilting upward in a tired posture. Becky waits for something further, assessing the way Charlotte goes through an array of emotions regarding whatever they have to speak about, but she can’t help but admire the blonde. Whether or not she’s welcomed here, it’s been nice to see Charlotte after all these years. She swallows hard and her eyes dart away just as Charlotte turns to her again, right before a gesture is thrown toward the hallway jutting out from the end of the long, white room.

Becky follows Charlotte in the direction of her private office, stepping into the room which looks like a miniature library, darker-colored and scented with… _pine?_ On the right wall, two, tall bookcases are pressed against it, each packed with old-looking novels and texts. To the left of the door, two tables topped with shelves are cluttered with knick-knacks, all in pristine condition and set in some kind of order. Becky’s eyes sparkle at them, like a kid in a candy shop, and she ignores Charlotte who sits down behind a big, oak desk in the center of the room with another burgundy chair on the opposite side.

Her fingers trace along a miniature globe until she locates Madagascar, sliding her finger northeast, then she spins it using the tip of her index before turning her attention to a painted vase just three items down the line. There’s a rough texture to the vase’s construction, like thick paint had been dabbed with the bristles of a brush to create miniature mountains, and occasional, smoother indents interrupt the pattern where it’s decorated with ornate flowers. It all looks so beautifully hand-crafted and impassioned, Becky tilting her head to the side and nearly losing herself until Charlotte interrupts.

“Would you stop touching everything?”

Becky can hear the stress in her voice, her former, amused personality returning to chuckle and retort, “Relax, Your Majesty. I’ve handled artifacts three times the age of these.”

Charlotte ignores the nickname Becky had given her during their last adventure, rolling her eyes through emotional exhaustion; it’s been approximately five minutes, yet the fiery redhead has already managed to give her a thumping headache. How keen.

“Somehow that’s not comforting,” she mutters from where she sits, thinking Becky hadn’t heard her response but, when brown eyes drift in her direction, a faint smile teasing the girl’s lips, it’s proven otherwise.

“My hands are gentle, I promise.”

Again, the blonde rolls her eyes at what some people pass off as Becky’s infamous charm. Once upon a time, she would’ve, too.

Okay, scratch that; once upon a time, she _did,_ and she nearly fell prey to that charm hiding a sea of arrogance beneath. “Nearly” being the operative word. That is, until she realized that she was only a stand-in for the inanimate treasure Becky was after. She supposes she should be flattered by the insinuation that she’s at least relatively the same worth as an urn valued at millions ━ now resting underneath a city of sand ━ but, then again, she’s not someone who takes being played lightly.

And, alright, maybe Becky didn’t realize what she was doing, or perhaps the occasional flirting and weighted looks during their venture were just child’s play to her, and she guesses that she, herself, could’ve enjoyed it for what it was: just flirting. But who can resist such a mysterious, complex person like Becky Lynch? Who can resist an avid adventurer who’s escaped countless, dangerous expeditions with so much as a permanent scar on her chin? Who can resist such a perfect smile belonging to someone who never stops trying ━ who never stops believing in the impossible?

Charlotte clears her throat to escape her thoughts, memories, and woes; she’s not about to get roped into any of Becky’s ulterior intentions, and taking a trip down memory lane isn’t on her list of things to do today.

“So?” she asks, clipped and eager to shoo the other woman away.

“How’ve you been?” is all that comes in return.

“Cut the crap, Becky. Why are you here?”

“I’ll tell you, but I sincerely want to know how you’ve been, first.”

Unrevealing eyes stare at her, and Becky raises her eyebrows in a way that says she’s not leaving until she gets an answer. Clearly, she hasn’t gotten past her too-authentic cosplay as a pest.

“I’ve been fine.”

“Really?”

“Becky.”

“Alright, alright,” against her enthusiasm, she relents and takes a seat across from Charlotte, the expensive desk dividing them.

Still, the blonde woman waits with her arms tightly crossed over her stomach, keeping a pointed, steely gaze fixated on Becky whose face contorts with befuddlement on how to begin the conversation.

She used to be good at this. Actually, she used to be _great_ at shooting straight for the point, no dilly-dallying or beating around the bush when it came to business. Because this _is_ still business, even if there’s ━ dare she say ━ history between the two of them. Even if Charlotte is still pissed about their last encounter, and even if Becky doesn’t necessarily _want_ to rope her into the expedition. It’s all still business.

Her head nods partly, more so to herself, before she sucks in a gust of air and forces another see-through smile.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Is it another one of your reckless goose-chases?”

“Reckless? Goose-chase?” Becky diverts with a snicker and bugged eyes, the reaction being telling all on its own. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

 _“Oh,”_ Charlotte smirks, but it’s the least bit friendly, “I could _never_ do that.”

“I’m _that_ unforgettable, huh?” her ability to twist the conversation is uncanny, and the blonde deflates.

“Forget it, Becky,” she waves her hands and shakes her head. “I’m not like you. I don’t get off on nearly getting killed each hour.”

“It was once!” the defense is cracked in the middle, and, if the air surrounding them wasn’t so dense, Charlotte would find herself laughing at the height Becky’s voice is able to reach.

“Three times,” she remains stoic, unmoving. “The mudslide, the cliff, the water.”

Becky mentally recounts, eyes squinting as they bore into the wood of the desk, then she softly admits, “Right, it was three times, wasn’t it? _Damn.”_

She raises her eyebrows at the treasure hunter’s failed memory, suspicions only being confirmed that Becky hasn’t settled down an ounce since their last mission together. The woman lives for danger and it’s obvious, but that’s not Charlotte’s style and it never will be. A single brush with death was one too many.

Her rejection of the proposal isn’t accepted, however, nor did she think it would be that easy to get rid of Becky. Of course, she was hopeful that Becky would take the negative response and walk back through those museum doors without glancing back, but the Irish woman is anything _but_ easily swayed. There’s a reason why many call her Straight Fire, and an even bigger reason why Charlotte nicknamed her Hot Head.

Now, Becky makes solid eye contact with Charlotte who tries keeping on a stonelike facade, careful not to reveal her minimal interest in whatever the woman had in mind. Truthfully, though, she’d be lying if she said she _wasn’t_ intrigued in the idea of going somewhere new ━ even if dangerous ━ and it’s because she’s always found Becky’s tastes in missions like no other. Okay, so maybe she can’t outright say it to the redhead because, undoubtedly, stroking her ego would create far worse friction between them ━ at least from Charlotte’s perspective ━ but Becky’s dedication…

Let’s just say it’s not the _worst_ quality about her.

Randomly, with Charlotte stuck in her own head, their rift in conversation is broken when Becky flashes her a cheesy, childlike smile in hopes that she’ll break the taller girl’s resolve. She doesn’t, but she manages to get the words flowing again ━ not to say she’s happy with the direction the topic shifts toward.

“Didn’t you have a partner?” Charlotte narrows her eyes in skepticism.

Paige.

“I did,” Becky confirms with a single nod, voice quiet but unmoved, unrevealing.

 _“And?_ Where is she?”

“Unavailable.”

“I’m your second choice, then?”

“No,” again, her voice is unreadable, but this time there’s a specific hollowness to it that reveals the gist of explanation.

Suddenly, the single word hits more than any clarification ever could, and it holds weight Charlotte wasn’t expecting or digging for. Her eyes drift down to her desk in partial guilt when she detects a chilling undertone in her guest’s answer, understanding that the “unavailability” of Becky’s partner is rather permanent ━ likely a result of their often-perilous feats, or presumably so. In that case, especially, Charlotte’s heart sinks deep into her chest to the point of wanting to ask how Becky is faring, but she’d never want it to come out as if she’s blaming her for it, or as if she’s being condescending. She knows how Becky’s mind operates, and she’s aware that it’s beyond probable this has affected her more than she’ll opt to reveal.

An apology is on the tip of her tongue, ready and willing to be spoken with a quiet tone of sincerity, but she misses her window of opportunity when Becky uplifts the conversation with evident determination to not sulk while she’s here for another reason.

“Come on, it’ll be like the old days.”

Back to basics, Charlotte thinks as her tongue rolls behind her teeth.

“We worked together _once.”_

“And it was a blast,” although it’s a defense meant to be convincing, the tall blonde chokes out a exaggerated laugh.

“Emphasis on ‘blast,’” her eyes go wide, now frantic. “I’m not going through that again. I thought I was going to come back with PTSD all because I wanted to be a top reporter at the time. Nothing’s worth risking my life over,” the explanation is rapidfire, and Becky exhales. “I know that now.”

Becky nods, “You’re right, it’s not.”

“Oh, don’t pull that━”

“What? I’m being honest.”

Charlotte shakes her head, but she’s stopped.

“You’re right, Charlotte,” the words are careful and serious, low and thorough, like she’s thought about it earlier than within this visit. “We’re totally different people and do things in our own ways. I’m not asking you to change that.”

“But?”

Initially, her mouth hangs open as her eyes drift away from Charlotte’s, caught off guard by how the blonde has seemingly, _completely_ stolen her old trait of getting straight to the point.

If there’s one quality Becky will never forget about the woman in front of her, it’s her ability to shadow or mirror another person’s quick-witted persona before putting it on like a jacket. Back then, it was the concept which sparked palpable heat between them, Becky’s smirk always coming to light when Charlotte managed to outsmart her on the spot with a joking grin of her own. Before, that hadn’t happened. Before, Becky had been top dog, getting her way with the majority of people she tried to outsmart, men and women alike. Even with Paige, Becky and the dark-haired woman managed to own their separate personalities without sharing much in common aside from their love of treasure hunting and pirates. With Paige, they were equals, but still different ━ just never competitive, and never trying to one-up each other. A cohesive unit.

With Charlotte, the blonde would always be watching, listening, spongeing up every aspect of another person. She’d latch onto demeanors and body language within an instant, and she’d know what made you tick before you did. It was always enigmatic, and something Becky would fail to understand as she was never a people person. Social cues? Not her thing. But, Charlotte… damn, she’d read you like a book despite your pages being blank. It didn’t matter if you tried hiding it, or if you weren’t even aware of the baggage you carried. She knew. She _always_ knew.

Over the years, Becky has thought about it more frequently than she’d admit. Maybe it’s Charlotte’s own brand of self-defense, being a surefire way to protect herself in case anyone tried to penetrate through the platinum walls she built around her heart. Maybe she’d decode people’s actions and personalities before they were able to decipher hers, or merely try to. Maybe it’d be used as leverage for a later date.

Within the time they’d spent together, it backfired when it came to Becky, but it’s not something the redhead would’ve used against her ━ _ever._ In fact, it was endearing that she was able to turn the tables on Charlotte and vice-versa, their moments gradually becoming too close for comfort but also so, _so_ welcomed with tension, innocent smiles that hid true intentions, and heavy glances that told the deepest stories. It was ethereal, and the only soft thing in her world full of brash memories, situations, and words. It was…

_New._

Their attraction had been on a top-tier level, and Becky would never be one to dismiss that. If anything, she wishes they would have spoken about it. Even now, with Charlotte staring at her through irritation, waiting for a drop of acknowledgment to what she just asked, Becky wishes she could solely tilt her head to the side, smirk, and have Charlotte do the same but in her own way. She wishes she’d be matched ━ for old time’s sake. She wishes she’d see that smile, but in its natural radiance.

Unfortunately, things are immensely different now, and the only emotions she’s received in this encounter are nothing short of plain annoyed, pestered, irked, so forth. Hell, she still can’t blame her for it, either.

“But…” it comes out through a breath, Becky pausing before saying, “I think it could be good for you.”

She cackles ━ but, again, it’s not the humor or emotion Becky is seeking. It’s dark comedy, baffled and a shade twisted, like she’d been expecting the answer but didn’t know if Becky had the guts to literally say it. It’s followed by Charlotte arching an eyebrow, trying to halt her giggles.

“Okay, amuse me,” she leans back in her chair, folding her hands above her stomach like a smug businessman. “How could it _possibly_ be good for me?”

With a curt hum exiting her throat, Becky scoots to the edge of her seat with her knees tapped together, the toes of her leather boots pressing against the marble floor. She raises her pointer finger, like she’s ready to state a “did you know?” type of fact, and Charlotte waits.

“You always loved history,” Becky starts with enthusiasm, strong persuasion in a voice that’s expressive. “Picture this…” she raises her hand as if she’s painting a mural in the air. “After all that hard work as a reporter, after all that studying between continents… you finally hold something that very few people have. Something you can’t read in a text. Something that’s not found behind glass in places like these,” there’s a pause. “Henry Avery’s lost treasure,” the words are animated, yet they sink lower for impact.

Immediately, Charlotte’s lips part in interest before she forcibly seals them ━ not before she’s been caught, but quickly enough to portray her internal conflict. Her thoughts swirl about the idea, hearing vast stories about people who have attempted to locate the treasure, or those who purely studied the trail more than the rest. At the end of the day, the majority of individuals failed both finding the bounty and learning more about it, and quite a handful of people have died dedicating their lives to it. In truth, she’s amazed that Becky is going after such an insane treasure ━ one that may or may not even _exist._ Hell, it may exist only at the bottom of an ocean with little to no clues pointing in that direction. There are even endless reports _debunking_ Avery’s hidden stash, entirely, calling it a hoax or a myth.

The expedition is moronic, even for the most skilled hunters ━ even for the individual sitting in front of her with a dorky smile and bouncing eyebrows that she probably believes helps her case.

They don’t, but the look on her face doesn’t hurt her proposal, either. It’s rather endearing, and she’s missed knowing someone so passionate, so driven.

“Did I mention it’s found in the one and only lost city of Libertalia?” Becky finally adds, her grin reappearing as she eases her head forward a bit more.

At this, Charlotte shifts her jaw while turning away; she can’t handle looking at Becky when they both know her brain is boiling in hot water right now. They both know she’s done for, and she’s teetering on the edge of agreement.

God damn it.

“You always said you felt unfulfilled,” this time, her voice is a casual reminder, like a lifelong friend that’s been by her side since the beginning. “Don’t lie to me now.”

For the first time since Becky walked through those museum doors, she looks like the woman Charlotte shared a tent with at the end of each night of their exploration. This woman is tender, understanding, trusting, and everything right with the world. Less reckless, less selfish, and less thieving. Equally as fiery, but in a way that warms you without threatening to burn. If Charlotte hadn’t known Becky prior to today ━ if they didn’t hadn’t crossed paths before ━ this deal would be closed at the sight of those puppy-dog, “I know you want to” eyes. But, because of Becky’s capability of turning around without a hint of what she’s bound to do, Charlotte licks her lips and looks down, torn.

“If I _do_ help you…”

“You can have anything you want.”

“Don’t ever━and I mean _ever_ ━ask me to go on another trip again.”

Becky’s jaw initially drops in the slightest appearance, taken aback, until the world’s most disheartened “Oh” slithers out like an exhale. Her expression bears the epitome of rejection and a hint of scorn, even if she tries to hide it by bowing her head and awkwardly scratching her neck. Like when you drum up maximum courage to ask the girl you like on a date, and you can tell she’s about to accept with her eyes lighting up, right before she asks, “My friends can come, too, right?” That’s a kick in the throat, and it resembles the dismay Becky’s demeanor reacts with.

Deep in Becky’s mind, she tries to figure out why her limbs tingle, or what emotion she’s dealing with. Sadness? Okay. Rejection? Believable. But neither make sense. She got what she wanted; Charlotte is on the brink of agreeing to joining her on the trip. Why should she care that this is the last adventure they go on together? If all goes to plan, this may even be _Becky’s_ last big hurrah. So, why _does_ she care? She’s not sure, but she — for whatever reason — does, and she’s positive she can’t hide her obvious shift in spirit. Hell, maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe it’s worth facing.

Alternatively, she begins to play with the visitor’s pass like earlier.

On the other side of the desk, Charlotte can tell Becky is trying to pretend it didn’t affect her that much. She’s trying to strengthen herself by now clearing her throat and blinking hard, like windshield wipers freeing one’s sight from a blur. She doesn’t want to feel, and that’s obvious, but something clearly struck a nerve, and Charlotte gives the universe a sad smile while sinking into the silence between them.

She can’t take it back. She can’t backtrack and pretend she didn’t know what she was saying when she made the demand. No matter how much her heart begs her to add, “But, who knows, if this goes to plan then I may just change my mind,” Charlotte knows she shouldn’t. Things are too different now, and she’s afraid her mind will just buckle under the stress of dangerous activities. That’s an expected, humane thing, isn’t it? Fear. She can’t afford to buy into the heavy heart that beats in front of her — she can’t even afford to question why Becky’s eyes won’t look at her — but she feels the need to explain herself.

“I meant what I said about not being like you,” her shyness comes to the forefront, as well, turned away but glancing in Becky’s direction. “I can’t afford to keep doing this.”

“It was one trip!”

Charlotte swallows hard at Becky’s clawed, incredulous-sounding retort, wishing to retell the things that their trip had done to her, and how it was only the beginning. She wishes she could explain the short-lived addiction she gagged on, and how it’s the reason she spent a year in self-defense classes with a sickness in her stomach. She wishes she could be open and honest with the saddened, Irish woman in front of her, but it’s a lost cause. It’s not even a given that Becky would understand her side of things, anyway; this type of adrenaline is what keeps the redhead surviving ━ ironically enough ━ and, to her, it’s been nothing but generous. To Charlotte, it’s bitten her more than once with its venomous fangs ready to infect, and probably will try to do so again.

“Just…” the strength to argue dies in her throat, “that’s all I want.”

The darkness in her eyes shows Becky something deeper to the point of knowing Charlotte can’t be swayed on this. It causes her blood to run cold, but not out of fear of Charlotte. Instead, it’s fear _for_ Charlotte, and Becky tries to ask what happened but her tongue won’t cooperate, leaving her to frown as her eyebrows furrow. As a result, her proceeding tone turns raspy.

“Okay, Charlotte, you got it.”

It earns a slow, growing nod from Charlotte who mutters, “Okay,” before reaching for the arms of her chair so she can push herself upward. She doesn’t get far, being stopped by Becky’s ambivalent “Um…” that regains the historian’s attention.

“There is one, _teeny-tiny_ caveat, though,” Becky squints one eye, then seals her lips with a gremlin-like, pained smile.

She sits back down, “This should be good.”

Becky is wary, running her tongue along her teeth in the midst of gathering her thoughts. Charlotte already knows, from the way her face contorts with her signature cycle of conflicted features, that what she’s bound to say isn’t the peachiest of details, so she waits with expectancy and a tilted head.

“I do feel I have to warn you that some… _unfriendly…_ people may show up at some point.”

How vague.

“‘Unfriendly people’? Like, a secret, special-ops militia that’d prefer staying a secret?” it’s dull, knowing and fully aware ━ which, truly, isn’t any more comforting than if she reacted badly, Becky thinks.

“And they’d do anything to keep it a secret.”

This wouldn’t be the first time they were targeted while sticking their nose in places they shouldn’t, and the fact that Becky is actually _afraid_ of bringing it up is more amusing than the sick humor surrounding the fact that _of course_ they’re going to be shot at again. When with Becky Lynch, Charlotte supposes, fireworks are a given. She breathes out.

“Sounds fun.”

“Doesn’t it?” there’s her immature, misplaced seriousness again, Charlotte eyeing her until the smile drops through a no-bullshit intimidation.

“Who are they?”

“Ah,” Becky relaxes into the chair, pursing her lips and shrugging. “I haven’t looked into it too much. I’ve really kept in my lane,” she makes a clicking noise with her mouth, squinting one eye.

“Hard to believe.”

“I’m a changed woman.”

She scoffs, “You were in a foreign prison two years ago!”

At that, Becky shifts her jaw, all entertainment fleeing from her eyes as she stares ahead at Charlotte. Normally she’d make a joke about how hard time does wonders, but instead all she can focus on is the ringing in her ears, the devil on her shoulder reminding her of what happened in that place. The gunshots, the loss of humanity.

Automatically, she deflates, but she can’t blame Charlotte for her lack on knowledge of what happened. If Becky wanted to stop the jabs, she’d let her in on what happened and she knows ━ for sure ━ Charlotte wouldn’t overstep again. It’s another game of “I deserve it,” in the end, and Becky keeps her mouth shut while lowering her head.

Charlotte notices her change in demeanor, forehead creasing in confusion, but she doesn’t fixate on the atmosphere thickening in the room. To distract herself, she picks up a ballpoint pen from a holder atop her desk, feigning interest in the item.

“Look, Charlotte,” Becky clears her throat, “cards on the table, I need your help. No one’s got history down like you do. Not without having a big head about it, or not without being so goodie-goodie that they don’t know how to get their hands dirty.”

She plays with the pen between her fingertips, tapping its end on a spare piece of paper as Becky continues.

“We’ll have a jump on them. Whoever they are, they don’t know what I’ve figured out, which I’ll let you in on if you accept,” her tongue carefully traces her lower lip. “We’ll be in the front door and out the back before we’re made. _If_ we’re made. I’m not even sure if they have a historian talented enough to help them figure it out.”

“You flatter me,” for the first time in minutes, Charlotte speaks, sarcasm covering the response.

It earns a breathy chuckle, but then hesitation before Becky hopes, “So, you _will_ help me?”

The woman in front of her presses her tongue to her inner cheek in a form of thought, trying to find some reasoning within herself to turn down the offer and go on with her life. There are just so many aspects of the unknown that are intoxicatingly convincing ━ even without Becky’s glowing smile nudging her into saying “yes.” Her common sense screams “no.” Every bone in her body tells her to walk away, to be safe, to be _practical._

Who ever had fun being practical, though, and who ever made an impactful life from behind the comfort of a desk? Who ever stayed in their familiar realm and managed to feel alive, to taste the thrill of something dangerous, or misunderstood, or just plain _new?_

So, against her better judgment, Charlotte leans forward.

“We’ll need more arms, and _arms_ ,” her eyes bug, emphasizing the fact.

Becky nods slightly, voice tiny when she agrees, “Yeah, yeah, I know some arms.”

“No,” she shakes her head with a genuine laugh, immediately derailing whatever Becky was close to deciding. “ _I_ know some arms. A… friend… of mine.”

“Do tell.”

Instead of letting Becky in on who she’s referring to or how she knows her, Charlotte pulls a smaller piece of paper closer, quickly scribbling down the woman’s name and where to find her. Becky watches her, in the meantime, feeling her lips twitch with desire to curve into a smile. God, it’s been so long since she was in the presence of Charlotte, and she’s forgotten what it’s like to bask in her appeal, knowledge, and everything else she brings to the table. There are very scarce people in the world that Becky finds above the rest, but Charlotte just happens to be one of them. After all these years, she’s _still_ one of them.

The paper is slid across the desk within the next minute, Becky’s head tilting to the side with her eyes squinting at the name and address.

“I’ll call and let her know you’re coming,” Charlotte notifies, and Becky peers upwards.

“Me? Going all the way to━what is this place?” she closely reads the paper pinched between two fingertips. “Springfield, Massachusetts? Where in God’s name is _that?”_

“Western part,” it’s unamused, direct. “The internet exists in case you get lost,” the sass comes paired with a grin that Becky stares at, lacking a proper rebuttal.

Charlotte sighs, “You’ve navigated through deserts and snowy mountains without an _inkling_ of where you’re going. I have no doubt you’ll manage to slip through this with no trouble.”

Becky finally huffs, puffing her cheeks out, “Okay.”

“I assume I’ll be hearing from you again.”

“Now, _that’s_ the spirit,” a big smile reinforces the statement, glowing to the point of Charlotte earnestly wanting to match it. “There’s hope for you, yet, Charlotte Flair.”

She can’t find it within herself to react or respond. More like she doesn’t trust herself to without giving Becky some sort of cheeky smile or warmth ━ not with the dopey grin she’s still being shot as the redhead begins to get up.

Once she’s at the threshold of Charlotte’s office, Becky pauses and bows her head with her back facing the tall blonde who now stands behind her desk. Turning around, she puts on a friendlier expression, genuine and authentic ━ something she would’ve done regardless of the visit’s outcome.

“It was nice seeing you.”

Charlotte can’t return the sentiment but nods. Really, Becky wasn’t expecting her to say anything, and she wouldn’t have asked her to. She knows they’re both still reeling from their pasts ━ both involving one another or otherwise. She knows they still have work to do until they’re a solid team again, facing whoever they must to survive, and she knows that may not even happen, in the end. But she has to be the one to try. She has to be the one to make it up to Charlotte, and prove that she’s not the same person she’s been in the past. Sure, she may still have selfish tendencies that dictate how she operates, but that doesn’t have to mean she’s absentminded and uncaring.

Truly, she’s just grateful that Charlotte is giving her the time of day.

With an assortment of thoughts swirling between her ears, her feet take her down the elongated hall and past giant windows, saying goodbye to the ship that greeted her when she first arrived.

Behind her, at the other end of the hall, Charlotte watches Becky exit with a skip in her step as she passes the next tour group. Her jaw clenches slightly until it relaxes, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of her nose as she mutters to herself.

“What did you just agree to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with more stuff to say (and cue the groans). 
> 
> One thing re: this version of Charlotte: She's NOT a pushover -- which isn't to say she's a pushover in any other universe, but here she's certainly not afraid of presenting herself with a harder backbone. She has history with Becky (history that WILL unravel), and then she has her own history (which also will come to light) which has made her a little more raw. Same thing goes for Becky, herself, which is why we kind of see how two-sided she is; she's very selfless but also selfish at the same time, because there are two different versions of her. So, overall, Charlynch's current relationship isn't the best (I'll own that), and just remember that there are two sides to every story, but I'm excited to show everyone where they end up and how they get there. I promise you'll enjoy it. 
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, and I hope to see you back here for the next two chapters (and beyond).
> 
> P.S. Special thanks to Brynn and Sam for reading these chapters (and enduring all pain) before anyone else, just to make sure I'm not TOTALLY off my rocker. Their dedication and kindness? Unmatched. MVPs if I've ever known any.


	3. Chapter 3

SPRINGFIELD, MA., UNITED STATES

* * *

The now-crumpled piece of paper is held between her fingertips as she scans the name and address for the tenth time on just this block, eyebrows all but permanently furrowed at the less-than-generous, unfamiliar surroundings ━ or hostile environment, more directly.

She stands in a run-down part of the formerly industrial-built city, occasionally earning a honk or two from outspoken truck drivers. In several instances, she’s had to pull her jacket tighter around her body while speed-walking past groups of men hanging out on corners, earning a round of whistles that made her jaw clench, having the strong desire to tell them it’s not a compliment but knowing it’s not worth it.

After all, it’s just another sting that reminds her of how human she is. It’s just another reminder that she can put herself in the utmost treacherous positions without blinking an eye, but out in the real world? She’s suddenly a clownfish in an entire, dark sea, and there’s nothing she can do to change that. There’s nothing Becky can do to make the wide-open ocean any less intimidating, any less sneaky, or overwhelming. You’re surrounded by everything and nothing at the same time, and no one pays attention until you mess up, or _forcibly_ draw that attention ━ whether or not it’s intentional. It’s up to them. Not you.

She can be miles upon miles in the air with nothing but frozen ground below, nails digging into ice caked on old stone, hoping she doesn’t slip and crash, and her confidence won’t waver. She can be in the midst of a puzzle with only one correct answer ━ one answer that _won’t_ end in your hand being chopped off through a hole ━ and she’ll do it with a misgiven smile.

Here, on the streets, out in the open, it’s different. Here, there are endless possibilities of what could happen, or what people could do. You see it on the news all the time, and hear it on the radio. Safety? As far as Becky is concerned, the mainland is just as scary as the unknown. At least when she’s ventured far into a place she shouldn’t, she already expects the unexpected. Here, she can’t; there’s no possible way of preparing yourself for whatever the universe throws at you, and it’s all part of the role you play. Here, she only has one way of defending herself, and it’s not through any severe training when it comes to climbing or escaping. On the streets, there’s nothing to climb, and no way to escape besides running or fighting.

She swallows hard, eyes moving back and forth while twisting her body to assess her surroundings once more.

There are cracks along the pavement with necessity to be paved once, twice, three times over _._ The sidewalk, itself, has an entire chunk missing from the curb’s edge, as if someone passed by with a sledgehammer and took their frustration out on the whitened ground. Its appearance only supports Becky’s caution about the city, all while noting each and every flaw. Negativity reinforces negativity, and it’s hard to get away from once you give it the time of day.

Nevertheless, her eyes continue drifting along the area, taking it in one piece at a time. In patches alongside that broken sidewalk, the grass is a pale yellow, this time reminding her of the prison’s courtyard where she and Paige would strive to stay out of fights between rival gangs. Sometimes, they didn’t succeed. Sometimes, it became a triple threat, and, more often than she’d care to remember, she put her body on the line to save both her best friend and Rhea from a major beating until guards broke it up. One time, she even came out with two busted ribs and a one-way trip to the prison’s not-so-standardized infirmary. Considering the fact that one gang leader held possession of a previously hidden shank, she deems herself lucky for merely a pair cracked bones.

Her lungs fill up with the surrounding, polluted air as she takes a breath, shoving the piece of paper into her jacket’s side pocket while eyeing the old warehouse’s entrance. It appears to have previously been some type of factory, the bottom level now turned into a car repair shop where, hopefully, a woman named Sasha Banks waits. Hopefully, Charlotte made that call for Becky, and _hopefully_ this is a quick trip.

If Becky wasn’t here for business, she wouldn’t be here at all. Clearly, it’s not a very friendly area, judging by the way people eye her as she walks past them, and the way graffiti covers everything in sight. Then again, since she’s on the hunt for a mercenary, someone ruthless and trained to do whatever it takes for those she’s hired by, it’s more likely than not to find them in an environment equally as brash as their lifestyle. It’s fitting, she decides, but that doesn’t mean she feels any more comfortable than she did when she first entered the city.

Of course, not all areas of Springfield are the same, and she’s found that the city holds a lot of common things you’d find in bigger names such as New York City or Massachusetts’ own Boston, out east. But, as she’s been out of the States for quite some time ━ enduring more exotic travels since most of the artifacts she’s chased have been older than this country, itself ━ it’s taking her longer to get used to than she figured it would. Hell, she may _never_ settle back into the swing of things here, but, sincerely, she’d be okay. She’s not one to settle, anyway.

Still, the Irish woman pushes some hair behind her ear and braces herself for whatever ━ _whoever_ ━ waits for her inside the musty auto shop, raising her chin and pretending to brave these clammy surroundings. Her boots take her across a section of dry grass in avoidance of the brown puddle creating a home within a walkway’s indented center, ears catching onto a thumping R&B tune coming from deeper inside the shop before fully entering.

Ducking down, she walks beneath a mostly raised garage door covered in rust with its few windows cracked in all corners, carefully slipping inside to stand on polished concrete. Surprisingly, it’s already nicer and cleaner than the neighborhood on the other side of that garage door, but not even the nicest qualities could take away the oily scent that invades her nostrils.

Becky sniffles and straightens her back out, eyes searching the place once they’ve fully adjusted from coming out of the shadows. At first glance, with a seeking gaze, she realizes there’s no one else around. Voices come from the direction of a cracked door toward the other side of the garage, smoke puffing through the acute opening with evidence that the music is coming from the men who now begin to laugh with rugged voices and swears galore.

She’s about to cross the empty garage ━ around the giant stain in the middle of the polished floor ━ when a bright-haired woman walks out of a separate backroom, only to pay no mind to Becky. The woman slips behind the metallic front desk as Becky hears her rifle through multiple boxes of presumably car parts, clinking noises scuffing against cardboard. It’s another minute of the redhead lingering by the door before she realizes that she won’t have the employee’s attention until she speaks up, the woman keeping her back turned and staying on task.

Becky frowns but observes her, noting purple ━ pink? _magenta?_ ━ hair and her obvious “no fuck” attitude that’s the least bit pleasant. In fact, it’s pretty much the epitome of this part of the city ━ being dense, cold, and dank ━ and Becky picks at a callus on her palm while waiting for herself to get a grip on her usual confidence. When it doesn’t come willingly or authentically, however, she forces herself to get one. No time to waste.

“Hey,” fauxly energetic feet take her further into the garage, a slight, confident bounce in her step despite its synthetic appeal. “Hey, you. _Pinky,”_ she gives the woman a nod despite not being turned to, raising her chin and curling her lip a fraction.

For the first time in this encounter, she has the purple-haired woman’s attention when she whips around, eyes squinted into daggers, purely annoyed and bewildered at the… insult? Nickname?

“Excuse me?” it’s rasped and her stare is demeaning, like she’d rather ask the redhead who she thinks she is, coming in here and acting like she owns the place.

The way Becky isn’t deterred from approaching the counter shows that she means business, and proves that she’s not so easily scared off. The employee lessens her glare and straightens her back, watching the Irish woman fold her arms atop the counter’s metal surface with the leather of her jacket sticking to the slab’s thin layer of moisture ━ or what Becky hopes isn’t something _disgusting._

“I’m, uh, looking for someone named Sasha Banks,” the grin she shows the other woman is prying, as if it’s something top-secret she’s talking about in an exaggerated fashion ━ again, like she owns the place. “I heard she works here.”

“You heard correctly,” she tilts her head to the side, not giving Becky the satisfaction of swaying her with simple words, tones, and underlying “charm.”

A long pause follows, Becky waiting for something further, more direct, as her head gradually eases forward in a way to ask this woman when she’s bound to move and go get Sasha. When it doesn’t happen within another minute and the two are left to have an impromptu contest to see who blinks first, Becky realizes that it’s not going to happen, and her frustration comes through a shaken laugh.

“Can you get her?” attitude takes over the question, but her eyes stay glimmering with that pretended confidence ━ that _cockiness._

In all seriousness, without missing a beat, she informs, “You’re looking at her,” in such a solid, monotonous response that proves she’s aware of how Becky will react ━ instantly being deemed correct when the redhead’s mouth drops open in surprise.

Truly, up until now, Becky has been picturing someone bigger, with prominent features, burly, maybe even… _ugly._ The woman she stares at is approximately an inch shorter, a bit thin, and holds an attitude problem that, honestly, would be pegged to resemble recklessness in a contentious situation. Sure, she’s sporting a generous amount of muscle ━ as far as Becky can tell without staring _too much_ ━ but nothing that would give away her side job as a mercenary. In fact, without Charlotte’s trusted word, Becky’s skepticism of the woman standing in front of her would be enough to make her rethink hiring her entirely. But, against her strict judgment overrun by anxiety, she sincerely _does_ trust Charlotte, and believes the blonde when she says that Sasha should be brought into the equation. So, here she is, ignoring her skepticism, ignoring her instincts, as they scream for recognition within her veins.

With a self-directed nod and a sharp tick of her jaw, Becky straightens her back out and stops leaning against the counter, getting a better look at the person in front of her. She doesn’t shy away from observing the woman. It’s part of the territory, after all; if you’re going to be spending money on a mercenary, it’s best that you know how they can operate. Like a product ━ _without_ making it sound so demeaning, Becky internally muses.

A smile begins to appear across her mouth as she’s ready to say something, locking eyes with Sasha again, but she’s beaten to it with a smug grin teasing toned lips.

“You must be Becky Lynch.”

On cue, a slight laugh is heard until the tip of her tongue is trapped between her teeth, Becky then holding her arms out through a subtle, “in the flesh” motion before they’re slapped back into place by her sides.

“I must be,” she confirms with an ego to it, accent strong in her words. “So, you _did_ hear I was coming,” it’s more of an accusation rather than a question, and Sasha raises her eyebrows with a snicker tripping from her lips.

“I heard a lot more than that,” vague as ever, her tone is exaggerated, and Becky quirks an eyebrow of her own.

“Like?”

“I heard about this little suicide mission of yours,” her eyes blink in pointedness as she keeps on a grin, but it’s altered more belittling, undermining, with each passing second.

Becky wants to scoff at both her tone and expression. She wants to shrug her shoulders and say that, fine, she doesn’t need Sasha, after all. She wants to laugh in her face, just as belittling and undermining, but the look Charlotte gave her all those years ago… it gradually resurfaces, and Becky instead gives a nod to the universe’s crude reminder before settling on widening her own smile to mock Sasha’s.

“‘Suicide mission’?” Becky’s voice drips with sinister dismissal, only covering up the fact that she, too, understands the severity of it all ━ in fact, she’s been outright ignoring it. “I like to think of it as a tropical vacation.”

That’s one way to put it.

“With gunfire.”

“Who said anything about gunfire, lass?” the entertainment heightens despite her grin becoming less pronounced, eyes dimming and voice becoming less cracked, Sasha already proving to be quick-witted and trained to find weakness.

Talk about a trial run.

“Oh, pardon me, so you’re trying to enlist in the help of me, a known mercenary, just to keep you company?” with the pop of her lips, like she’s bested the woman across from her, with elbows leaning on the counter, with her chin resting upon her fists like a common schoolgirl, eyes beady, her voice sinks to a daring whisper. “Charlotte isn’t enough?”

Although Becky wishes to respond to the ladder question with sad laughs or maybe even harsh honesty that she’s _more_ than enough, there’s something about it ━ possibly it’s random placement in the conversation or the way it’s spoken ━ that causes her to mentally brush it aside. There’s something lying beneath, as if she’s intentionally tossing breadcrumbs on the ground to see if Becky eats them up, or lands herself in a trap. There’s something with torn intentions, something less businessy about the comment and, instead, overall private. That’s enough to cause Becky to avoid it; she didn’t come here to discuss her past with anyone, and she didn’t come here to be double-teamed. As far as Becky is concerned, she came here _for_ Charlotte, and that should be a plenty, in itself, to prove that the blonde _is_ enough. That she means something.

But, fine; if Sasha wants to hit low for _whatever_ reason ━ if she wants to _dig_ or _berate_ for whatever reason ━ then two can play at that game.

“ _‘Known mercenary,’”_ the redhead muses with accentuation, giving Sasha a once-over while leaning atop the counter, too close for comfort with their faces inches away. “Thinking a little highly of yourself, aren’t ya?”

It earns a burnt reaction from Sasha, unwavering, her tongue pressing to her inner cheek with her eyes floating to the ceiling as if she’s in sheer disbelief at the redhead’s gall. Her posture straightens soon, as well, throat clearing as her palms flatten against the cool counter while Becky waits for some kind of retort, slowly retracting to her former position and returning to being flat on her feet. Ten seconds of thick tension pass, Becky finally being met with steely eye contact from that same, beady gaze, and this time the woman lacks her playful ━ yet volatile ━ personality. Now, it’s just plain irritated, dismissive, and indifferent.

Now, she’s over it.

“You can take your mission and shove it up your ass. How about that?” Sasha smiles bitterly and immediately turns around in a single motion, also accompanied by an opened hand being shown in Becky’s direction, resuming her task of rifling through dusty boxes of auto parts like nothing had happened.

Behind her, with the sound of metal parts clinking together in her ears, Becky takes a breath and shuts her eyes while tilting her head toward the ceiling. This isn’t how she pictured the encounter going, nor is it looking like a solid deal has the estimation of taking place. Certainly not with the two of them on completely opposite ends of the empathy spectrum, and definitely not when there’s this much tension between them. Definitely not when Becky keeps poking at her, and she admits it’s a product of her own fault.

When she doesn’t speak up and explain her reasoning, it backfires. When she opens her mouth and lets her thoughts run rampant, it backfires. God, she’s getting so sick of not knowing how to work with people. She shifts her jaw, turning her head and playing with her fingers ━ the damn callus on her palm that never heals.

It’s weird, though. Becky has felt bad tension before, with plenty of individuals. She’s felt the desire to punch someone in the throat while they glared at her with expression that screamed how they’d enjoy stepping on her neck. She’s had her blood boil to the point of snapping so promptly that she cracked their nose with a single knuckle. She’s had to be separated from someone else due to the gradual incline in their anger toward one another, and it had ended in trolling and throwing down until they stood over her. All of those instances were via disagreements and rejecting personalities, however, and none of them felt like this. _This…_

Something feels _off._ Something feels personal, like there’s bad blood between them without having met before. Like there’s some sort of history that Becky can’t pick up on, like it’s one-sided, and Sasha has no intention of letting her in on it.

Becky’s eyes narrow at the back of Sasha’s head as her tongue traces the backs of her teeth. One way or another, she wants to end this interaction on a better note than when she walked in. Ulterior motive? Sure, she admits she’d find immense satisfaction in figuring out why the hell Sasha seems prematurely set on disagreeing with everything she says, does, or merely thinks. But, for the most part, Henry Avery’s treasure is still out there somewhere ━ she knows it ━ and she won’t rest until she and Charlotte have the “arms” they need. If this is who Charlotte demands, then she’ll get her. Only the best for The Queen.

Becky smiles, but the short-lived happiness is gone as quick as it came.

Of course, she’d be lying if she claimed that she hadn’t attempted to look into other mercenaries as contingency plans for if things went south here, but it’s not something you simply search on the internet. Over the years, she’d gathered sources and enough of a sample pool in case she ever needed assistance on a trip, but, until now, she’s found she’s been perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Moreover, when she was with Paige, she ━ _especially ━_ never had to entertain the thought of having backup; her best friend could grow a tad over-aggressive, become a “hit first, think later” wildcard, but she had a mean shot, and that shot took care of both of them over their time together. With both of them as the brains, Paige as the fiercer aim, and Becky as the prime climber, they worked perfectly together. A duo for the ages.

Now that she’s on her own, and now that she’s after something on such a grandiose scale of epic proportions, she would’ve never tried to dismiss Charlotte’s remark that they need more people to complete the task at hand. Even after today, Becky will go on to find them a bang-up driver and a navigator ━ which she’s already been looking into, procrastinating this so-far hellish visit ━ and then, within the next week, they’ll hopefully set off to finish what she and Paige started.

None of that will happen if she can’t lock Sasha down for the trip, unfortunately, which means it’s time to suck up her pride, and maybe grovel a little. Or a _lot._

“Okay, look, I’m sorry,” with a more-serious, sincere, attitude and a quiet breath, Becky tries luring Sasha back in. “I do… need… you. A known mercenary,” she uses the woman’s words against her, and she’s hesitantly turned to, Sasha’s chin raised a fraction. “Because, yeah, it’ll probably get messy. There’s been plenty of militias heading there recently in hopes of finding the treasure, and I need to make sure I have some more muscle. _Leverage.”_

The look she’s given is both bothered yet attentive, Sasha’s arms crossing against her chest with her head tilting to the side in curiosity of what Becky has to offer. When the redhead stops, Sasha’s eyebrows raise, pushing her to continue; she’s going to milk it a little more, just to see what she can squeeze out of such a skilled treasure hunter.

Taking a few seconds, Becky swallows hard and explains, “Charlotte trusts you so much that she recommended you, so,” with a latent hope that bringing up the blonde’s name will spark something.

And it does. There’s a very minute twitch in Sasha’s posture, a mental mistake with her arms loosening barely enough to be seen before she retightens them in discomfort, all while shifting her weight to her other leg. Becky catches onto the cluster of otherwise-small motions, realizing that it could purely be an ordinary trait of fidgeting, but also deciding that it’s worth looking into. Beyond that, if her repositioning wasn’t enough, the cagey look in Sasha’s eye that lasts for a split second before it’s blinked away gives Becky all the confirmation she needs.

“Why does she trust you so much, anyway?”

Another twitch comes, a prick of soreness or irritation; the question appears to get under Sasha’s skin, shifting more so and uncrossing her arms so she can approach the counter again. Becky doesn’t flinch or move a muscle, plenty of times dealing with intimidation techniques. She knows Sasha is trying to pick her spot, trying to see how easily Becky backs down from sticking her nose in other people’s business or simply in places she’s unwelcomed. But she doesn’t move like Sasha wished to see, and only lifts her chin to keep a firm line of sight with the mercenary whose jaw tightens in mental disarray before she clears her throat.

“Past business,” it’s under her breath, but leaves no room for any other questions. “Not important.”

At this, Becky narrows her eyes completely, nonverbally poking holes in the response with desire to legitimately voice them ━ that is, until she’s hit with Sasha’s demand and every thought is fried, on contact.

“I want fifty million.”

“ _Dollars_?” Becky chokes out with bugged eyes a smile of disbelief, feeling like she was just slapped in the face. “Fifty million dollars?” her shaken repetition isn’t any less taken aback, remaining aghast and lacking a proper response with her mouth left agape.

Her twisted comedy of a reaction only causes Sasha to blink rather innocently. She expected this surprise and Becky can tell, but it seems as though she already has a rebuttal for the ever-growing shock written across the redhead’s features as her jaw is slack, shoulders slumped in derailment. Sasha puts off an answer for as long as she can, delaying it with objective, letting the the Irish woman stew in the feeling of being caught off-guard. She lets her sweat it out, Becky’s face slowly but surely draining of its amusement as Sasha waits for her moment to strike again, and it’s only after the other woman bluntly questions, “Are you fucking with me?” that she scoffs.

“Oh, _don’t_ act like that’s too much,” there’s a very minor shake of her head that’s dares Becky to fight her on this ━ that dares her to come up with some story as to why she can’t pay the instructed amount when, truly, the bounty they’re after is _much_ bigger.

“Uh, well, _yeah_ ━”

“Listen,” Sasha is impatient and decides to cut her off, “don’t think just because I’m not as educated on this subject as you, it means I don’t have a vague idea of what the mission will take and how many people have lost their lives trying to complete it.”

Getting deeper into her interruption, her voice turns pointed, lecturing, strengthening with solidarity yet growing more animated as she continues, “There’s a reason I called it a suicide mission, and a reason why you won’t agree that it is. Because you don’t want to admit you’re in over your head.”

Becky’s smile resurfaces, staggered, dazed, and she’s ready to speak before she’s cut off.

“Not to mention how much that treasure must be worth nowadays. What was it?” the purple-haired woman leans closer, eyes narrowed, tongue perched to whisper. “ _Four-hundred_ million? Maybe even more as minutes pass,” her eyes sparkle this time, lacking their former beadiness, backing up to cross her arms with self-righteousness. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m going easy on you.”

Again, Becky opens her mouth to retaliate, but her words disintegrate when they’re overrun.

“ _Not to mention_ … I’ve done my research on you, _Straight Fire,_ ” it’s emphatic, pronouncing every syllable with a drip of venom that makes Becky shift her jaw. “You _already_ have the money. You’re lucky I’m not asking for payment up front.”

Once Sasha is finished, Becky realizes that the majority of her excuses are null and void, and, honestly, she’s not even sure if she’d be able to scratch for another reason as to why she couldn’t pay a mercenary that much.

In fact, part of her wonders why she cares, in the first place, as she’s never chasing treasure for the monetary value. Since the adolescence of her travels, there’s been one thing that convinces her to go back for more: the thrill of the hunt. It’s never been about money, fame, the glory, nothing to stroke her ego. All she’s ever wanted to grasp onto was a firm sense of self-worth, perhaps legacy or the ability to feel something that pushes her forward again and again. In actuality, when she was talking to Charlotte about the blonde never feeling fulfilled, she supposes a generous amount of her comment spoke to herself, instead: _“You always said you felt unfulfilled. Don’t lie to me now.”_

The conflict has been largely prominent since Paige’s death. Sure, she’s gone through the motions like she used to with her best friend by her side, but they’ve been empty. _She’s_ been empty.

Lacking. Abandoned. Chilled. Indifferent.

She always figured a major accomplishment or personal milestone would be something to uplift her spirits, but it hasn’t worked. And she figures that’s another reason why she’s chasing after such a big name in the pirate world ━ the _biggest_ name in the pirate world. In addition to she and Paige initially starting this journey together, giving her the motivation to end it for the both of them, she wants something deeper to come from it. Something that isn’t tangible, or able to be spent on something else. Something mindful, maybe. Hell, she even wonders if Charlotte had a point when she argued that knowledge is most valuable. At this point, she wouldn’t stray from telling Charlotte she was right about that, as long as it allowed her to feel something like she used to.

Either way, her interest in Avery’s treasure has nothing to do with the millions its worth, but the concept of having a weight lifted off her shoulders. All of the burdens, gone. The heartbreak, gone. Only then, it’ll be worth something. Only then, _she’ll_ be worth something.

Still, it’s not like she wishes to give Sasha the satisfaction of simply saying, “Okay,” without making it known that she’s not swayed easily; she refuses to be thrown around by anyone who finds solace in their own smugness, especially by someone who is bound to work for her. She said she’d be willing to suck up her pride to get Sasha into this, but she’s _not_ willing to toss away her own fiery personality just to lie down for someone else. No way. And if she’s going to be paying fifty million to a mercenary who thinks they can simply _outsmart_ her, she’s going to try her darndest to assert dominance. This isn’t a case of childsplay, and she truly wonders if Charlotte purposely set her up against Sasha for the sake of watching the two tear each other up.

Then again, the blonde seemed so sure, so _honest,_ and that’s enough to get her to━

“You know, for an esteemed treasure hunter, you sure as hell don’t seem like you know what you’re doing here,” Sasha muses aloud, giving the other woman a puppy-dog pout. “What’s wrong? You don’t trust me?”

“Now that you mention it, no,” Becky chokes out with wide, obvious eyes, cackling. “I don’t usually hire mercenaries. Certainly not on a simple recommendation.”

“Really?” she’s unconvinced, appearing so baffled that the redhead feels surprised by her surprise.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

She hums and shrugs with pursed lips, “You’re not exactly a one-hit-wonder in the thieving world.”

Suddenly, Becky’s ego returns tenfold, and Sasha instantly registers what she said and how she said it, biting her tongue and wanting to hiss out a sharp “Damn it” without actually making her self-awareness known.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it as you wish,” she retorts, voice now passive, tired. “I just find it hard to believe that you never had help.”

“I had a partner before. Years back, that is,” Becky tries to explain without delving into the subject; she refuses to give the woman anything else to hold above her head. “Since then, I’ve been on my own. Smaller missions, you know? Just enough to keep the blood pumpin’.”

“No wonder you’ll need a mercenary for this one,” Sasha muses, snickering, and Becky stares at her. “‘Smaller missions’ is just code for ‘I’m a little rusty.’”

 _“Oh,”_ she gives her a hearty laugh of disagreement and shakes her head, looking away, “I wouldn’t say that, love.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re too high up in the clouds,” Sasha sighs out as if she’s known Becky all her life, and the Irish woman listens to what she has to say without her usual skepticism. “Realistically speaking, you came here today because the ‘simple recommendation’ you got is the only lead you have, and you know you need a mercenary for something so sought-after,” she pauses, lowering her voice completely into a demand. “Fifty. Million.”

She’s not wrong, Becky thinks; the mission is undoubtedly going to be a hassle, surpassing the danger she’s used to. It’s no secret to anyone that it’s going to entail a buttload of grit, patience, and the relearning of veteran skills. Even Charlotte knew would it’d take ━ right when Becky let her in on what they’re after ━ and that’s likely the main reason why she hesitated before agreeing. If her past with Becky wasn’t enough to derail her interest in the mission, the adventure’s hostility would take the cake, and, truth be told, it’d be a beyond-valid reasoning for shaking her head. Becky wouldn’t have questioned it.

Henry Avery is synonymous with death, illness, friends turning against friends, coworkers destroying each other for a mere clue on the trail ━ that is, if you make it far enough to turn on someone. If you’re not snagged by one of his infamous traps, first, or if you don’t fall from a cliff, first. If you don’t drown in the ocean while following his path. If you don’t freeze in the Scotland tundra at the start of your quest, or die of dehydration when your vehicle gets stuck in a dune far out in Madagascar’s savannah. If you’re not shot down by enemy gunfire, either.

Sasha’s points are valid, and the purple-haired woman knows it, simply relying on the way the redhead lacks an immediate response. Becky kicks herself for appearing so lost, so defeated, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t fight until she’s dried out.

“Actually, no, I’m _not_ positive that we’ll need you while we’re there. It could go smoothly!” she tries to defend, but it’s primarily self-convincing, and, right when it’s spoken, it falls flat. “Why would I pay you fifty million to stand around?”

“Because you and I both know you don’t want to risk it,” she’s a smooth-talker, Becky will give her that. “If you were to show up there with nothing but your little map, clues, and a single standardized handgun… you know that wouldn’t get the job done if one of those militias showed up and things went awry,” her lips linger parted once she’s done speaking. “Or, should I say, _when_ they do?”

Becky snickers, “So, you’re essentially calling yourself a fifty-million-dollar insurance policy?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Sasha gives her a half-nod, turning her palms upward in a partial shrug.

She stares into a steely gaze, waiting for a sign that Sasha is willing to waver. Judging from the way the woman has carried herself through this conversation, her services must be equally as vaporous and successful. It’s not common that Becky feels matched by a stranger, much less one that she’s met in a run-down car shop, but she supposes there’s a first time for everything. And, who knows, maybe their clashing personalities will ultimately provide a spark in their endeavors.

God, at this rate, she hopes so.

Charlotte wouldn’t have suggested Sasha’s services if she didn’t believe she could get the job done ━ particularly in high-pressure situations like the ones that are inevitably going to transpire on the trail of Avery’s treasure, with or without involved gunfire. To put it bluntly, over the course of Becky’s research and the general studies of other historians, the little known amount of Avery points to his knack for aforementioned traps and “series of tests” that weed out faulty pirates, set in place when he was recruiting for his infamous, outlaw utopia. Of course, she has hope that she’s smart enough to avoid what they can, but, on the other side of things, there’s that whole “shit luck” concept she’s been dealt by the universe’s hand.

Great, right?

Becky exhales, puffing out her cheeks and putting her hands on her hips. Meanwhile, Sasha waits, eyebrows raised and face stoic, expectant.

“You drive a hard bargain,” the Irish woman admits, voice monotonous but lacking the word’s darker side, simply lying dull and settled.

She beams, “They don’t call me Boss for nothing.”

“They really call you that, huh?” she digresses, Sasha’s face falling flat again.

“Do we have a deal, or not?” it’s impatient, showing that Becky is getting the best of her ━ and the redhead only chews on it more because, hell, this is the only form of excitement she’s had in the conversation that Sasha has primarily owned.

“How do you know I won’t just kill you once we get the treasure?”

It receives a good laugh. A little too good for Becky’s tastes as she licks her lips and waits for Sasha’s serious attitude to return. Evidently, her triumph was short-lived, and she’s at a loss now.

“I’d like to see you try,” the woman dares, though it’s actually lighthearted. “Besides, I know you’re not the killing type. Not until someone crosses you, at least.”

She thinks back on the times it was imperative to kill in order to survive, the first time leaving such a stain on her memory that she broke down into tears. Occasionally, she still does. But, nowadays, she’s learned that it’s all part of the game, and it’s a part of the humanity that she willingly sacrificed. As expected, it doesn’t get any easier as the years pass, but she gets by.

Taking away someone’s life has never been on her list of beloved hobbies, and she tries her hardest to avoid it even at the risk of self-endangerment, whether it be through crawling beneath weeds, swimming under docks, or covering herself in mud so she’s undetected. She always found her sourness toward it strange, however, because she knows the foes she defeats wouldn’t think twice about shooting her down, getting her blood on their hands, and tossing her body into the river, but maybe that only speaks to the human qualities that _do_ still lie within her.

Greed controls their actions. Determination controls hers. Luckily, the only sacrifice she’s willing to make surrounds her own sanity, and not the fraction of heart she still has left beating in the comfort of her chest.

But is that really much better?

Ending the pause, after getting sucked into her own head before breaking herself out, Becky blinks hard and looks away. She can sense herself being stared at throughout the action, Sasha still waiting for an agreement that’s been tremendously delayed, so she takes a breath. A chuckle follows, Becky striving to get back to their banter so she doesn’t have to reveal the thoughts hidden behind a joker’s exterior.

“You got all of this from Google?”

“No,” she chokes out as if it’s the most obvious thing, “I have much better sources, sweetie.”

Becky’s eyes narrow in blatant ignorance to the pet name, understanding all but smacking her in the face as she bows her head and mutters, “Charlotte,” to herself.

No answer comes, but Becky purses her lips before suddenly asking, “You don’t trust me, either, huh?” with a lightness to her tone.

“How do you figure?” the question is countered.

“You must’ve asked Charlotte about me,” she points out. “More than just about what we’re after, or what the job would be.”

Sasha nods slowly, impressed with a humming noise coming from her throat in acceptance of the reasoning.

“I like knowing who I may be working for,” Sasha admits. “Business and all.”

“Right, right,” Becky mumbles, but, like earlier, there’s something off about the entire exchange; it’s like there’s a giant chunk of conversation that’s missing, but she’s not sure it ever existed.

It’s like she’s been put in the dark, but purposely, as if the people she’s close to working with are somehow working _against_ her. But Charlotte would never, and Becky knows that; she’d trust the blonde with her life, and that’s saying something considering how her past has gone. Considering how Charlotte would trust anyone _but_ Becky with her life.

None of it explains the unspoken pieces lying beneath Sasha’s words, though, particularly when Charlotte is brought up, or even vaguely hinted at. Perhaps the two are closer than Becky originally thought, or maybe there’s far more history between them than she imagined. She wonders how they met or what they meant to each other, if it was business, or otherwise.

Just another reason to bring Sasha aboard, in Becky’s mind. In fact, that may be another reason as to why Charlotte suggested Becky hires her; she wants someone she trusts, for whatever reason, and, currently, that’s not her. It’s not like _Becky_ trusts Sasha, on the other hand, and she’s already owned that.

In the end, she guesses that she doesn’t have to trust her as a person, but only as a mercenary, so, finally, she breathes out through her nose in a cautious laugh, nodding to herself before looking at Sasha.

“Alright, Pinky,” Becky nods more. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” it ends with a subtle grin and remnants of her ego, Sasha matching it with a smirk as she holds her hand up, eventually and solidly being met by the other woman as their hands embrace to complete their agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I'm from the city next to Springfield so this was totally derived from personal feelings toward it, lmao. It can be nice, but let's just say you don't want to be stuck on the streets at night. 
> 
> I wanted to thank everyone for the nice response to the story thus far. We're not even that far into it but I've received comments both here and on Tumblr that have made me smile like a quack. I'll keep saying it, but: it's been a while since I've had the energy to write a lengthy story, what with college killing my confidence, but y'all are keeping me excited. The whole reason I put my book (like an actual, original piece, surprisingly) on hold is because I didn't feel a lot of encouragement about it (both from myself and from others), so I'm hoping continuing this will help me push through finishing that, eventually. 
> 
> ANYWAY, sorry to be mushy or borderline pathetic a lil bit, I'm back now. I hope you enjoyed Sasha's entrance. She's certainly someone who goes head-to-head with Becky and gets under her skin, and there's a big, underlying reason for it (probably not what you're thinking). As expected, we'll find Bayley next, and then there will be a short break before I post Ch. 5 since I want to get a good chunk of chapters done before I post again. It'll be a good time, though.
> 
> Thanks again, friends!


	4. Chapter 4

LOS ANGELES, CA., UNITED STATES

* * *

“Thanks, mister,” Becky briefly salutes the stout, bearded man with her fingers tight together and straightened to her forehead, casually backing away from the tall, white cubicle that holds resemblance to a fair’s ticket booth.

As she walks past the final security perimeter and in the direction of the broad yet standard-sized race track, her nails carefully pin the laminated “guest” card to her shirt collar, internally praising herself for opting to remove her jacket for the day as California’s heat beats down on her skin. With her arms back at her sides, she hums quietly without losing her footing along the dusty, dirt path that’s a straight beeline for the fenced-in course.

In the distance, she can hear an engine’s faint buzz, occasionally growing louder before it drifts further away in a manner that confirms they’re driving around in a circle. Otherwise, she’s left listening to the crunch of loose gravel beneath her feet whenever miniature rocks pop from the dirt, or even the silence left surrounding the lot as it’s been built in a remote area.

In fact, the track is so far from civilization that Becky stopped to wonder if she had accidentally exited California and somehow tripped into the likes of a warmer version of Nebraska. Long gone became the buildings and the lights, the people and the heavy traffic, even the trees thinned down to nothing after a while of navigating toward the location with the assistance of GPS. Even when she pulled up and was given a robotic, _“You have reached your destination,”_ Becky quirked an eyebrow and actually asked, _“Are you sure?”_ with a creased forehead and knuckles still tight on the wheel.

Nevertheless, she exited the charcoal rental car and began walking across an adjacent path with her boots speckled with dried mud, eyes observing her surroundings until she spotted the multiple security measures ━ but not until they saw her, first.

As expected, she was approached, and she held onto her best, Becky grin that displayed every ounce of confidence she’s ever stumbled upon as a trophy from her travels.

 _“Are you lost?”_ she was initially met by an older woman with sunken-in cheekbones, eyes squinted so far that Becky wondered if there was something stuck on her face.

 _“Um, no, I don’t think so,”_ her response was the least bit solid, but her facade of strength spoke otherwise. _“I’m looking for Speedy,”_ she said. _“Brown hair, big star in the driving world, stunt world, whatever world.”_

_“And you are…?”_

_“I’m…”_ shit ━ she thought in panic. _“I’m a scout, actually. Name’s Rebecca,”_ her hand politely reached for the security officer’s, shaking it once she was met halfway with remaining hesitance.

Naturally, the guard stayed skeptical of her as they stood there, and, truthfully, Becky would’ve felt the same way in her position. After all, her uncertainty regarding who she is and what she’s doing at the track didn’t come off the least bit convincing ━ admittedly, a mistake on her part for not planning ahead of time ━ and perhaps her attitude was pretty cagey.

But, in the end, no one can resist a green-colored donation, and it was slapped onto the ledge of the security cubicle as the guards all nodded in agreement toward each other, the stout man eventually slipping a laminated permit underneath a pane of glass.

And it’s not like she necessarily _lied_ to them; she _is_ looking for Speedy ━ real name: Bayley ━ and she _is_ scouting. For what, exactly? Well, that would’ve been a bit more of a hassle to answer, but it’s all lost in her mind now as she passes through the gate of a chain-link fence and walks up a small slope of concrete patterned with dirt that’s been delivered by wind.

Impressed, brown eyes are tracing the curves of a typical, O-shaped race track within the following moments, a candy-apple-red Mustang gliding along the pavement like its wheels have been buttered. Surrounding the track are stands for crowd-goers ━ presumably for an actual event ━ and, truth be told, to Becky, it reminds her of a high school running track. When she originally discovered where this stuntwoman primarily trained on normal days ━ as her recent gig had ended only last week, working in Becky’s favor ━ her mind flashed to images of a grand-stage tournament track, something with the appearance of a stadium and more green space in the center, perhaps even a logo printed onto the grass with primary colors. Here, it’s just dirt surrounded by black pavement with normal, white lines, metal bleachers acting as guardrails, and it’s less mind-boggling.

None of it takes away from Bayley’s current performance as the car whizzes around the circle, the scent of burnt rubber filling the air with a man tracking her speed while wearing headphones and holding a portable, yellow monitor. Aside from Becky and who she assumes to be Bayley’s instructor and/or manager, the stands are entirely empty, and it almost surprises her to see no more security guards posted around the separate entrances. Then again, they likely have it covered since multiple personnel were at the main entrance, standing by an actual security rope and a clearance bar.

Becky takes a breath and rubs her hands together, muttering a calm “Okay” and deciding to gather her thoughts on the impending treasure hunt if all goes to plan with this conversation. Drawing no attention to herself from the man donned with headphones, Becky slips behind him and sits on a bleacher nearest to where multiple equipment bags rest on the ground, two water bottles placed nearby. A laugh comes out through a nasally exhale, internally musing that she didn’t think sitting in a car and driving top-speed was a strenuous task in dire need of superior hydration, but to each his own.

She’s sure plenty of people have their own misconceptions about treasure hunting, too. The most basic example being the dreaded, red “X” at the end of every hunt as it’s portrayed on television, a series of dashes written upon a map until it leads to its final destination. Another is the idea of treasure being found solely hidden in a brown and gold chest, buried beneath sand in such an obvious location. A giggle escapes her throat, rubbing her eye with three fingers as she sits on the bleacher. She recalls the first time she went treasure hunting and how she, also, thought it’d be that simple. How she thought it’d be that straight-to-the-point. How she thought she’d follow a path directly to the treasure before pulling out a shovel and digging.

In actuality, it was anything _but_ simple, and it’s how she learned the hard way that real treasure is earned through hard work, frustration, blood, sweat, and tears. It’s also how and _where_ she learned her mantra: focus, patience, and determination.

All in moderation.

It causes her to wonder how Bayley’s first treasure adventure will conclude, and how she’ll see things in an altered manner by the end of it. Quite frankly, Becky nearly turned away from Bayley’s resume when she found it, solely for the reason that she’s an everyday, Hollywood-bound stuntwoman instead of someone who’s worked previous cases of strenuous tasks. She’s an Average Joe, to put it bluntly, when you look past her unmatched driving skills and ability to leap at the most awkward angles. She’s normal ━ not to say she’s boring. She has her own set of skills ━ it’s just that those skills haven’t been tested in high-pressure situations.

There are two types of adventurers: those who do it for show, and those who do it for a living. As far as Becky is concerned, they’re on two opposite ends of the spectrum of ethics, and she’s not positive in how she thinks Bayley will react to the proposal of going big, dangerous, and less protected.

Hell, Becky isn’t even positive when it comes to how she’s going to broach the subject with the other woman, and she has no idea, _whatsoever,_ how to plead her case without explaining the mission in full ━ something she’s opting to _not_ do in this conversation due to fear that it’ll taint the driver’s initial response. Because, honestly, how would that go?

 _“I know you do this all for play, but would you like to perch yourself at the edge of a_ real _cliff with a fifty-fifty chance of falling to your death?”_

No, thanks. If today’s interaction goes smoothly and Bayley decides to accept the offer, she’ll know the risks, in due time.

It’s different than it was with Sasha. This type of adrenaline is cemented in Sasha’s bones, and it’s part of what she does for a living. The danger, the escape-routes, the falling, the pain, the life-or-death situations that are more like seventy-thirty with the negative aspect claiming the bigger percentage. All of it is programmed into her DNA, just like Becky ━ and, in a way, like Charlotte, as well. The blonde may say that she’s not like Becky, that she knows what’s good and what’s bad for her, but when she sniffs out a trail, it’s one of the most endearing sights the redhead has seen. In those instances, their passion is mirrored, and Becky would actually be willing to take a step back and let Charlotte have all the satisfaction, all the self-given glory, the accomplishment, the hard-earned work coming to a head. Anything to watch her thrive in such a contradicting element to how she usually survives.

The sound of multiple pops from a cooling engine break her memory-directed focus, her chin lifting to see the red Mustang pulling to the side of the track as the man’s headphones are now hung around the back of his neck with the yellow monitor slid into his pocket. Becky waits, watching Bayley step out of the car as the engine consistently putters, mimicking that of a stalled go-kart for a reason that her vehicular knowledge ━ or lack thereof ━ won’t provide. The brunette’s helmet is slipped off to reveal her cheesy yet gloating smile, high-fiving the man as he walks past her and gives her a gracious head-nod paired with a smirk before rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s side.

Bayley backs up and away from the car, giving the man a single wave as he drives off and slowly exits down a distant ramp that leads into a bigger, white building hidden behind a chunk of the stands. Becky gingerly cranes her neck as she leans forward, seeing if he’s gone for good so she can make her move. Once the engine’s hum is out of earshot, Becky stands and all but hops down the bleachers to where Bayley sips on one of her water bottles, helmet tossed nearby as she’s left in a red and white racing suit that has a similar bulk to an astronaut’s.

As Becky walks, a skip in her step, her hands begin to slowly clap for the driver, delving a bit into her own clichés while approaching until she’s standing ten feet from the bleachers as Bayley is now turned to her, eyes confused and stiffened at the other woman’s presence.

“That was quite the show, Speedy,” Becky compliments with immediate personality, ending her clap and leaning on a nearby, stray post at the end of a fence piece.

At first, Bayley’s mouth drops open as if she’s bound to thank the redhead, her eyes lighting up with a sparkle of enthusiasm until it’s replaced by disarray and more confusion shown through puzzled body language.

“You know this is a closed course, right?”

“Oh, don’t worry, love,” she tugs at her collar to reveal the plastic badge gifted to her by security. “I’m permitted.”

It seems enough for the brunette, her head nodding but not erasing the millions of questions making out her features, sitting on the tip of her tongue before her mouth closes entirely. Becky waits for one of those questions to spill, not having to stand around for too long before Bayley narrows her eyes and cautiously asks, “Do I… know you?”

“No,” it comes out airy and with a shrug, pursing her lips.

She can detect Bayley’s interest in who she is, but, for the sole reason that her name isn’t the most hidden ━ _especially_ if you start poking around the interweb ━ she tries her hardest to stray from even relatively hinting at her identity. If there’s a mere nod toward what she does or how she makes a living, all acceptance could be off the table prior to having the chance to explain herself, and she can’t risk that. Not when she’s come this far, and not when she senses time for this hunt running thin with the objective becoming more popular.

Instead of harping on how Bayley doesn’t know her, Becky decides to turn the conversation around so it’s directed at the brunette, herself, making light chit-chat in ignorance to the furrowed eyebrows that face her.

“I have to be honest,” the redhead starts, voice low, “you don’t look like a daredevil.”

It earns a modest chuckle from Bayley who twists her body away, wandering over to her equipment without coming off unfriendly or bothered.

“Trust me, I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the argument sounds as if it’s based on valid points ━ because, by all means, she has them after scanning through Bayley’s resume full of milestones and achievements. “I read that you’re the best of the best,” she compliments while Bayley begins to pack her bags accordingly, being watched throughout. “Navigating, driving, climbing, stuntin’, you name it.”

Bayley straightens her back once she’s finished, looking at Becky through a gaze of wonder; she can tell that the redheaded woman is up to something, but she’s not sure what. After all, she’s still a stranger, she has no name, and she hasn’t even provided a reason for this impromptu visit. Really, Bayley isn’t even sure how she got past security, and nothing makes sense, but her internal flags consistently pop up via watchfulness.

“What’s this have to do with anything?” she finally asks, voice small.

Much to her disappointment and to more of her misgiving, Becky ignores her with an elongated hum emanating from her throat, spinning on her heel and moving to sit on the closest bleacher. She stares out at the track, previously not noticing a series of bumps on the outermost edge of the far curve, suddenly coming to the comprehension that, somehow, some way, Bayley made those turns appear as smooth as any other part of the pavement. For the speed she was traveling, it’s intriguing that she was able to have such firm handle on the car. Even if the entire track was completely leveled, no bumps, no divvets, no cracks, no inclines, no nothing… driving a car at a constant speed of over a hundred ━ due to previous experiences, she can tell by mere sight ━ isn’t an easy thing to do without losing control at one point or another.

Her arms cross in front of her, jaw hardened while lost in her thoughts. Meanwhile, Bayley steps close to the direction in which Becky’s eyes are burnt into, hoping to disrupt her just enough without being plain rude about it; she wants to understand what this conversation is about, but the Irish woman appears so soaked into a certain image that she’d hate to ruin whatever she’s thinking about.

But it doesn’t matter; once Becky senses Bayley’s questions growing louder, she asks one of her own ━ not to say it’s anywhere near direct, and the brunette frowns.

“Have you ever been camping?” she doesn’t alleviate her heavy gaze from staring at the dirt-covered center of the track, her voice staying with a single tone as she wonders aloud.

No response comes, and that’s what snaps Becky out of her trance, turning to Bayley with expectant, brown eyes.

“Um, yeah,” Bayley recalls, “a couple of times.”

Realization hits Becky immediately after she hears Bayley’s answer, remembering what “camping” is defined as for ordinary people: sleeping bags, a tent, homemade food, maybe a grill, a fire set by a lighter, lanterns, even a car or an RV. She wants to roll her eyes at herself for the bland, under-specified question, but she manages to keep the reaction to herself; she doesn’t want Bayley getting the impression that the annoyance was directed toward her.

“‘Live off the land’ type of camping, I mean,” Becky reiterates.

This inquiry grants a longer pause before Bayley provides an answer, her face contorting with heavy thought as her eyes float to the sky and sift through the clouds as if they’ll give her an answer faster.

“Once,” comes the admission, but even that sounds unsure. “Against my will.”

For the first time in a while, Becky genuinely laughs, not expecting such an honest answer from the brunette who has seemed unbelievably timid throughout their so-far short exchange. It’s sweet to know that at least some part of her is comfortable enough to be herself, even if it’s out of nervousness. In fact, Becky finds it cute, and she nods her head with a tight-lipped smile in attempt to cut off the rest of her laughter, but a giggle slips through the cracks until she clears her throat entirely.

Standing nearby, Bayley chuckles at her own answer and falls captivated by Becky’s charm ━ her laugh, her smile, her overall embodiment of mystery ━ so, in the end, her smile is both confused but authentic, real and true.

“Okay, okay, I can work with that,” it’s mainly directed at herself, the Irish woman licking her lips and taking her comedy down a couple of levels to stay focused. “Say, Bayley, how would you like to be a stunt double for a pirate?”

“What?” the joke falls flat, lost in the air between them.

Becky sighs, “We’ll have to work on your humor,” before changing direction and technique. “Treasure hunting. I’m… a collector, of sorts, and I’ve been scouting you. I need some help. A navigator and a driver, more specifically.”

The idea swishes around behind Bayley’s eyes for multiple seconds, face draining until void of all expression in a manner that grows an uneasiness in Becky’s stomach. Her silence is the least bit comforting, and it makes her wonder if the brunette is bound to ask why she needs a navigator, why she needs a driver, and what the mission is about. It’s even more worrisome that Bayley doesn’t react when Becky eases her head forward a fraction more, silently beckoning for an indication of acknowledgment to the proposal. She just stands there, lips sealed, eyes staring straight into Becky’s aside from the three times she blinks.

Suddenly, Bayley’s obvious wonders are contagious and contracted by Becky, her mind twisting and curling into a tight ball as her posture stiffens and she nibbles the inner corner of her lip. Did she jump too high, too quickly? Did she throw too much on the table, too soon? Did she━

“What’s in it for me?”

Oddly enough, the question is a relief, and a shaky laugh escapes Becky’s lips as she shakes her head and glances away to regain some sense of reality. That was a close call ━ _too_ close.

“Right down to business, I see,” she grins without turning to face Bayley again. “You’ll give Pinky a run for her money, that’s what,” it’s said beneath her breath, right before looking at the brunette who has her arms crossed in a childish attempt to put up some kind of defense, some kind of demand. “Money’s in it for you. _Millions.”_

Intentional is her lack of specifying how many millions. Although she is fully willing to ━ and set on ━ paying her partners equally, she’s not ready to face the inevitable, endless wonders about where they’re heading, for what, why, how they’ll get there, and for how long they’ll be staying. She’s not ready to explain to a newbie who Avery is and what they’re after, how he created a giant, pirate colony co-founded by a dozen, big-name pirates. She’s not ready to explain how multiple, secret-ops armies have been swarming around every clue-site for years upon years in hopes of finding the treasure they’re chasing.

If she mentions or even points to the number of four-hundred million, that’s suddenly a whole new ballgame, and Bayley’s caution could shoot up to an all-time high before the conversation crashed and burned.

So, to reinforce her prior words without having to delve into specifics, her voice falls to just above a whisper as she states, “Millions of dollars once it’s over. All yours.”

“There’s a catch,” Bayley points out, not a question, but a sheer statement that makes Becky’s tongue roll between her teeth.

The woman’s child-like smile and timid attitude sure as hell don’t soften the blow of her heavy instincts and ability to get straight to the point. She meant it when she said Bayley will give Sasha a run for her money, but she may even give Becky a run for hers.

She nods at the brunette’s stated fact, exhaling heavily then giving her a wary, “yikes” type of smile.

“Well, it _is_ illegal,” her off-putting face deepens with an emphatic shrug. “Is that not enough of a catch for you, Speedy?”

Bayley purses her lips, raising her eyebrows in notice that it’s a fair point.

“It’s a lot of work,” Becky interrupts her short thought, expanding on the upcoming venture. “Not like in the movies where it’s buried under a sand pile,” her words pay tribute to her earlier memories before she pauses and thinks aloud. “Well, sometimes it is, but—” she cuts herself off from rambling. “Jumping, climbing, running. Falling, but that’s more so myself. I’m notorious for having shit luck, you see.”

Releasing her crossed arms as they fall to her sides, Bayley chuckles and softens her demeanor.

“Yeah, you’re laughing _now,”_ the redhead mutters, scratching her jaw.

“It’s not just us, is it?”

“What, you don’t trust we’d get the job done on our own?” she feigns hurt. “Have a little faith in me, lass. I’ve been huntin’ since I was this high,” her hand hovers three or so feet above the ground alongside the bleachers. “If you _must_ know, we’ll have two more on our team. The best of the best of ‘em. All of you.”

The brunette quirks an eyebrow, “Our ‘team’?”

“Figuratively. This sport’s just a hair more dangerous than the rest,” the explanation comes out smoothly, right before Becky squints her eyes and looks out at the race track. “That’s subjective, I suppose.”

Her rambling gets an absentminded nod, Bayley slightly turning where she stands and staring across the track where Becky was previously zoning out. It’s an offer that’s certainly turned her day on its head, this morning waking up and going through her normal routine of enjoying a bowl of Cheerios with sliced banana coins, showering, heading to her agent’s headquarters, then stopping here for a quick test-run on her manager’s vehicle for the upcoming derby. Up until now, it’s been plain and simple, borderline uneventful. Boring yet still tedious. And, although this is something completely out of her element, completely out of her league, something within her compels her tongue to speak the words of acceptance. Something compels her to agree to Becky’s terms, to take a trip in finding treasure of some sort. The details may be vague, but perhaps that’s something that’ll only give her more, pleasant surprises in the future. Maybe this is opening a new door for her after years of going around the same loop.

On the other hand, the thrill of mystery doesn’t erase any of the insecurities she feels toward the unknowns of this trip. There are so many gaps in the plan that she could be walking into some scam, some con-artistry with Becky as the persuasive ring-leader with her glistening eyes, unique accent, and bright smile.

There are just _so many_ questions.

She glances in Becky’s direction, surprised to see the redhead waiting for a response so soon, but she can’t delay any longer when she’s asked, “What do you say?”

Bayley swallows hard, licking her lips.

“All I have to do is say ‘yes’ or ‘no’? Just like that? There’s no contract, or━or something to sign?” her stammering comes unwillingly, and the brunette’s mouth stays open after the fact.

Immediately, the Irish woman bursts out laughing, “That’s cute. No, no, there’s not. I mean, I have a napkin and a pen if you _need_ a contract. You don’t have to worry about my side of things, though. I’m a woman of my word.”

Her hand is lifted in a sign of peace-offering, promising Bayley that she won’t backtrack, but it’s still not enough.

“How do I know you’re not recruiting me for some survive-the-island bullshit?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” this time, Becky spills what she’s been thinking throughout their conversation; she’s watched, from the time they started speaking, Bayley go through an array of woes and wonders as the colors shifted her eyes, and only now have they surfaced completely.

Bayley bows her head, like she’s disappointed the stranger, but Becky continues with a gentle, friendly tone.

“I’ll tell you what,” she starts, pulling out a pre-scribbled, makeshift business-card with the initials _“S.F.”_ written above her phone number, ultimately placing it in Bayley’s palm. “Think it over for a few days, figure out any questions you may have because I’m _sure_ you have quite a few more for me, and give me a call.”

The sentiment means more than it should to Bayley, but she could tell, from the get-go, that this woman is someone who knows what she wants and stops at nothing to get a handle on it. To know that the fiery redhead is putting in effort to make her comfortable is nicer than it should feel, and it means a great amount. No matter how determined or electric this collector is, she’s still willing to push that personal desire to the side in order to accommodate other’s needs. It’s very telling, and it’s almost convincing enough to accept the deal right here, right now.

But, instead, she only glances down at the card cupped in her hand, not even grasped, brows knitted at the pair of letters.

“What’s ‘S.F.’?” another question comes as Becky begins to stand up, Bayley’s mouth settled into a minute frown.

Begrudgingly, Becky responds, “‘Straight Fire,’” with a self-directed eye-roll and a dull tone, though the other woman doesn’t see when her back is turned for five seconds.

“Is that your… name?”

“Now, that’d be a funny name, wouldn’t it?” it comes with a chuckle, facing the brunette. “In a way, yes,” she admits, soon pausing and focusing on Bayley who stares at the card in such an image of innocence, like adolescence and purity with a slight kick and thirst for discovery.

Bayley’s eyes simply burn a hole through the card as if she’s attempting to memorize the number within the first few minutes of seeing it. Becky doesn’t want to disturb her, in the end, so she begins to back up with boots crunching along leftover dirt along the sidewalk. The sound regains the driver’s attention, chin lifting to see the redhead leaving. Her awareness earns a smile from Becky and a subtle wave ━ more like the twitching of her fingers as her hand is raised ━ along with the comment: “It was a pleasure meeting you, Speedy.”

She’s out of earshot for the most part, but Becky manages to make out a mindless “Yeah, same to you” that comes through as much bewilderment as she had at the beginning of the conversation ━ if not _more._

Her mouth twitches into a grin as she walks further away from the track, rethinking the encounter and how it went. Normally, she’d pester the other person into giving her a solid answer before the end of the night, but there was something about Bayley that made her feel a tinge of sympathy. No, not sympathy, but perhaps an understanding that this is _so far_ out of her element, it’d take time to sink in. And that’s okay, in Becky’s opinion; she’s been doing this for as long as she can remember, but she’s sure that, if someone approached her with an offer to take another path in life, she’d have to think long and hard about it. A new adventure isn’t an easy pill to swallow, even if that pill is anxiety-inducing in a more positive, eager way. Nervousness and curiosity is a given, and so is fear. Like Charlotte, Becky is sure that Bayley has fear, even if they’re not derived from the same reasoning.

Besides, Becky can give it another day or so. If the universe just so happens to punish her another time by having the treasure discovered within forty-eight hours, then she’ll just take it as a sign that she should’ve given up a while ago. Two years ago, more specifically. Again, it’d be some sort of karma, and she’s not even sure if she’d be surprised. At this point, anything is possible. The universe still doesn’t like cheaters.

She shakes her head as she walks toward the security cubicle, unattaching her visiting permit from her collar and gingerly placing it back underneath the panel of glass while giving the man a smile. It’s a silent thank you and he nods at her while taking a break from eating his lunch, Becky continuing on her way back toward her car.

The scenery is nicer here than it was back in Springfield ━ at least as she’s far from the rest of the city. In light of the lack of greenery, there’s also been a lack of graffiti and litter on the ground as it threatens to blow away in the breeze. It’s been a nice get-away, and, even if Bayley decides to decline her offer, she━

Her phone buzzes in her pocket just as she reaches her rental car, seeing an unidentified number on the screen as she slides her thumb across its glass surface to answer the call.

“Hello?”

 _“It’s Speedy,”_ the person on the other line says, and Becky glances back in the direction of the race track with a giant smile on her face.

“You think about my offer?” her elbow leans on the hot arch of the car door, bringing her hand to her mouth to bite onto her nail while waiting.

_“Yeah, I did.”_

“And?”

There’s a long pause with subtle ruffling on the other end, like the woman is pacing back and forth. Becky isn’t sure if it’s intentional or not, if the brunette is attempting to pull a sort of enthusiasm from her in some odd game, so she laughs and teases, “The suspense is killing me,” to which she receives a breathy laugh into the speaker, then her answer:

_“I’ll come with you.”_

And, just like that, she’s a little bit closer to finishing what she and Paige started. A little bit closer to staying true to her mantra of staying focused, patient, and determined. To ending this. To ending the pain, the heartbreak, the loss, the obsession, the pining. It’ll all be alleviated, deadened, off her shoulders with allowance to breathe after two years.

And, just like that, Becky Lynch is a _lot_ closer to feeling so, _so_ satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there you have it. They're finally assembled, and we have our sweet Bayley. Notice how different her personality is from everyone else's, and how timid Becky is to be straightforward with her? I like to think of Bayley as the story's untainted subject, whereas the remaining HW have been through so much -- which isn't to say Bayley hasn't, necessarily, but just much less, which we'll see. She's not going to be treated with kid gloves, though, so I don't want anyone thinking, "Oh, great, another person who writes her like a child." No, she's innocent, but she's out to prove she's just as useful as the rest of them. One of my favorite tropes is making the "smallest threat" become the biggest, so what does that tell you? 
> 
> As for Becky, we continue delving into her selfless-while-selfish tendencies. Whatever messes she gets herself into throughout this story, they're her own doing, and she'll eventually have to reevaluate how she protects herself and other people (because that's exactly what it is: her heart is in the right place, just not from other people's perspectives). 
> 
> Anyway, I finished the first draft of Ch. 5 today (thank goodness, as it took me two days which is longer than usual), and it's pretty lengthy. I'll be working on revising it within the next few days, then I'll get Ch. 6 and Ch. 7 written, ready to post before finally updating again. It may be a little bit, especially because I'll be busy this weekend and with the holidays, but if y'all have any questions, just shoot me a comment or a message on Tumblr and I'll answer ASAP (I'm always checking my messages)! 
> 
> Otherwise, I wish everyone happy holidays, whatever you celebrate, and I hope to see you back here when we begin the story's main part. Thanks for being patient with me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back (or just plain welcome), and Happy New Year!
> 
> Before you read, I just wanted to warn you that, lately, my planned chapters have been becoming super lengthy, so I’ve been cutting them in half for the sake of not going on and on. Therefore, there will be time-stamps at the top of each chapter since most updates take place immediately after the prior one ended. Also, their lengthiness is why I've taken so long to get back, and why I'm stuck in chapter eight currently.
> 
> So, starting with this chapter and the next (an originally-single update which ended up at a whopping 14.5K), it’s basically a long-ass scene that I was forced to break. Also, it’s primarily thought-oriented and internal ramblings that are important moving forward.
> 
> Anyway, I have more to say but I’ll save it for the bottom note. Otherwise, I hope this chapter lives up to the hype since I’ve kept you waiting. Have fun!

MAROANTSETRA, MADAGASCAR

SAT., 8:05 P.M.

* * *

It’s awkward.

Actually, it’s _surpassed_ awkward, and it’s a borderline unbearable silence that cascades an invisible dome over the wooden, round table where they sit.

Becky’s eyes shift between her three partners for the upcoming venture, cautiously eyeing Charlotte the most as the blonde’s elbow leans on the table-clothed surface, her body bent pointedly away from the treasure hunter on her right. Sasha is on the other side of Becky, lips sealed forcibly with her arms crossed over her chest, but her gaze scans their surroundings; clearly, she’s never been in Madagascar, but there’s a minor sparkle in her eye that reveals she’d certainly visit again. Bayley, on Sasha’s right, does the same; the brunette observes their surroundings, taking in the exotic colors, vines woven through lattice walls, hung rope-lights above them, as well as the scents of spices and fruits, vegetables and sweet cakes, and chitter-chatter in the distance with their table being the only one set outside.

Still, there’s the personal, stagnant silence that never seems to weaken or dissipate, and Becky swallows hard at its constriction. The overwhelming tension between them even causes her to wish she could loosen her collar while they sit around, dinners now finished, but she’s not exactly willing to show how far she is in hot water ━ not to mention she’s not wearing a tight-necked shirt, anyway. She’s not willing to show her weakness, or even her anxiety. The constant thought of _“I used to be good at this whole, partner thing”_ cycles through her brain with a never-lessening speed. She used to be great at talking, convincing, debating, explaining ━ God, even _flirting,_ if that’s what it took to get a conversation going. Now, she’s stumped, and it’s been this way for the bulk of their time together, but primarily once they reached the high-end restaurant, sitting two blocks from the motel, and being placed on the cusp of the beach.

The only thing that’s eased her internal monologue is the subtle yet consistent crashing of waves, the water pulling itself back out to sea before slapping against the shore, pushing further against the sand, and repeating the process. It never ends, and it does the one job it knows how to do.

How inspiring, she muses.

Brown eyes float back to Charlotte once she sees the girl shift out of her peripherals ━ but it’s not much. She’s still pulled away from the redhead, but now she’s mimicking Sasha’s posture with her back slumped against the chair, arms crossed against her chest with the newfound stance’s tightness reminding Becky of the woman’s white, partly unbuttoned blouse that nearly killed her approximately an hour ago. Of course, she somewhat blames herself for how good Charlotte looks; she had told the three women of tonight’s restaurant reservation, booked at a classy eatery on the beach. Naturally, that was a silent comment of “Dress accordingly,” and it seems they’d all picked up on it.

With her fitted, white blouse, sleeves cuffed at the elbow, Charlotte wears black dress pants and high-heeled boots, being similar to her work outfit aside from those three buttons being undone. Blonde hair trickles down her shoulders, mascara causing her ocean-colored ━ blue? green? _ever-changing?_ ━ gaze to appear exceptionally vibrant. When Becky first spotted the historian stepping out of her motel room, she had to remind herself to keep her mouth shut ━ both in a verbal sense and that of disorient ━ and to keep her staring to a minimum. After all, Charlotte’s jaw was already tightened in a way that spoke volumes, like she was prematurely ready to get this event over with, and her back remained straightened in permanent defense. Becky knew not to push it.

Now, however, she has to force herself to stare elsewhere, biting her inner cheek and scratching the bridge of her nose in order to distract herself ━ and to remove the short-lived blush from her cheeks.

Sasha went for something a little more daring, and Becky would nod with comment that the mercenary’s choice fits her explosive personality. The top she wears is black, sleeveless with a gash down between her boobs, to her upper stomach, paired with black pants and boots of her own. Admittedly, Becky had to stop herself from ogling Sasha, as well, more so enthused by her toned arms and stomach now that she’s able to see. In fact, she nearly tilted her head to the side with impressed, raised eyebrows when studying the woman who approached the blonde and herself in front of the motel, but, instead, she managed to keep her remarks and obvious intrigue hidden behind tight lips.

Either way, Sasha cleans up nicely, and Becky can tell that Bayley thinks so, too.

Bayley, across the table from the treasure hunter, wears her hair down for a change ━ Becky’s judgment coming from the endless pictures of the brunette whose hair is nearly permanently up ━ and she’s adorned in an outfit similar to Charlotte’s, but not exactly the same. In place of Charlotte’s black pants, Bayley wears dark-colored jeans, and boots with flatter heels. Her button-up shirt is undone, as well, long-sleeve and a dark-colored plaid, though a white tank-top peaks out in the middle. Overall, she’s the least formal of the bunch, but, like Sasha, the outfit is similar to a form of self-expression; she’s the calmest of the four, the most innocent and in-tune with herself, and Becky can’t hide the light grin that appears at the notion before glancing down at what she, herself, wears.

Her torso is clad in a white, v-neck t-shirt and grey jeans, opting to go with a casual yet elegant impression as her hair is down with her normal one braid woven into it, currently tucked behind her ear. Her makeup is darker than usual, eyes presenting themselves as more hazel than their natural, deep brown, and her nails are painted black. As always, her leather jacket is on top, the pièce de résistance, being a staple in her wardrobe ever since Paige stopped wearing it.

Just a small piece to a big puzzle, and one of the remaining threads of her comfort blanket. She tightens it around her again and feels its material stick when it gets creased, glancing out toward where the ocean froths against the shore, its color a dark, nighttime hue with shimmering lights disrupting it.

The space between the four women remains quiet, so tense and frigid that the air could be shattered like glass at any moment. Even dinner was verbally abandoned, and, if you were to ask any of them, they’d admit that they’re unsure about if the clanking of forks and knives made things less nerve-wracking or more. Now, with their empty plates sat in front of them atop the wooden table, they have nothing to distract themselves with. Even the hanging lights above them and exotic scenery can’t allow them to fade off into oblivion for long, and, not too long ago, the main market’s whistling fireworks stopped painting the sky.

For Becky, in particular, the quietude is the least bit kind or tranquil ━ she’d even go as far as to say it’s not awkwardness she feels, but sourness. For Becky, that silence comes with guilt, just as it always has, but this time in regards to the women that surround her. She blames herself for not being able to coerce them out of their shells, and for swaying them so sideways into accepting this trip that they likely resent her. Then again, if she can’t make them feel comfortable enough to speak, perhaps it’s in the best interest that they don’t even try.

Maybe that’s how they’ll achieve their objective quicker, or get through this mission without killing each other. Maybe the wordless solitude will be a motivator, and communication will strictly come through action.

That doesn’t make it any easier, though.

The only thing that’s provided Becky with encouragement that they can work on things is knowing how their initial meetup wasn’t this tense. Hours ago, when Becky greeted each woman at the compact, edge-of-town airport, one by one, their interactions were okay. They were bearable, enjoyable, and just that: _interactions._ Sure, they were still awkward, and something tells Becky that they’ll stay that way ━ at least, for a while ━ if the words start pumping between them like earlier, but the important thing is that they were speaking. No silence, no confusion, no animosity. They were strangers ━ for the most part ━ and they knew they were, but they also displayed acceptance that, by the end of this trip, there was room for it to lessen.

She supposes that it’s her fault ━ as per usual ━ their mindsets changed sooner rather than later while thinking back on their first, group conversation in a loose huddle at the airport, initially made up of herself, Charlotte, and Bayley until Sasha joined in.

_“My name’s Bayley,” the brunette reaches to grasp Charlotte’s hand, gingerly shaking it.“You’re…” one eye squints in question, a small struggle ensuing, but a smile remains on her face ━ classic Speedy, Becky thinks._

_“Charlotte Flair,” the blonde gives her a polite grin while filling in the blank, Becky standing beside the two and watching the interaction like a hawk ━ a proud, devilish hawk. “Nice to meet you.”_

_“One of the best historians I know, this one,” with little to no filter, Becky enthusiastically points at Charlotte with cheesy praise, bouncing her eyebrows, and she earns a look from the woman in mention._

_When the redhead goes to glance at Charlotte, however, she does a double-take when she witnesses the glare she’s being given, and her smile tiredly drops before lowering her fervor to dully plead, “Just take the compliment,” with a strained voice._

_Normally, Charlotte would be the one to have a minor bite, a pinpointed exhaustion, to her words. Normally, it’s Becky who makes strides to keep the peace between them, the scattered remnants of cooperation from their former trip together, but there’s something off-putting ━ mildly concerning ━ about the Irish woman’s demeanor today, and the blonde’s forehead creases. Becky looks worried, or more skittish than usual, even if she always tries burying it beneath a facade of cockiness. She looks_ tired, _come to think of it, like she hasn’t slept in days, weeks, months._

_And it even seems like Becky notices her own twitch, her own accidental reveal of her drained energy, when she forcibly turns away from Charlotte, bowing her head partly before resuming her former, forced-confidence structure with a see-through smile. The blonde wants to question it. She wants to pull Becky to the side and genuinely ask if she wants to talk to someone ━ especially when Charlotte remembers the brief part in their conversation about the redhead’s old partner. She wants to express concern, no matter what their relationship is like nowadays._

_But she can’t, for, soon, all three women are twisting in a new direction when they hear their fourth member exhaling, “There you are,” until a cluster of citizens depart to reveal Sasha with a single duffle-bag slung over her shoulder._

_At first, Sasha gives Charlotte a curt smile, an unspoken conversation between them that only derails when the blonde turns away. It apparently delivers the hint Charlotte displays, Sasha then glancing at Becky without any real expression ━ not even a mocking smile or comment like back in the Springfield auto shop ━ until lastly facing Bayley who only stares at the purple-haired woman with a partial kindness, but also awe of something unknown._

_Becky quirks an eyebrow._

_“Fresh meat?” Sasha eyes her up and down with questionable yet actually playful features, a smile teasing her lips before her eyebrows raise when she turns to Becky in another, slight inquisition ━ this one pointed, but the redhead doesn’t quiver under a heavy gaze._

_“This is Speedy,” she confirms with the bow of her head, hands now tucked into her jacket with words animated, “our navigator and our driver.”_

_“Her name is Bayley,” Charlotte intervenes following the treasure hunter, tone solid while she avoids the stare that’s flung her way, chin raising to say she won’t be moved by it._

_“You know I’m much more of a nickname gal,” it comes with the Irish woman’s signature smirk, being as cunning and slick as ever, happily getting under Charlotte’s skin ━ up until the tables are turned._

_“Okay, Hot Head.”_

_Instantly, her face falls flat with her mouth in a tight line, avoiding Charlotte’s reaction of triumph. Next to them, Sasha ignores the digression and their less-than-straightforward banter; she has a feeling it won’t end or even die down in the direct future, comprehending the personalities of both Charlotte and Becky to a point of knowing neither of them will back down. Quite frankly, it may even cause for some interesting, competitive moments of entertainment for her and Bayley. Actually, she’s sure of it._

_When surveying the new brunette, though, Sasha can already tell that she’s something different, something fresh, or even golden. She can tell there’s something sweeter, newer about her, even by just observing the woman’s slumped posture with her red backpack heavy on her shoulders, or how her eyes bounce between Charlotte and Becky during their sporadic conversation._

_It’s interesting, and the idea causes an authentic, unlike-herself kind of smile to reappear when the driver faces her once more._

_“Welcome to the club, Bayley,” after adjusting the duffel-bag on her shoulder, Sasha goes to take her hand, and Bayley meets her halfway with a single, solid shake between them._

_“And you must be Sasha.”_

_Becky, to the side of them, self-directly mutters the correction, “Pinky,” while scratching the back of her head and turning away, blatantly pretending she didn’t make a peep while searching the ceiling above them. Naturally, Charlotte takes a breath, both bracing herself for her impending time with Becky, or even attempting to become accustomed to those types of small, gnat-like comments._

_Just like old times._

_“What’s… your role?” suddenly, without warning, Bayley’s wonder swiftly regains Becky’s attention as the redhead’s chin becomes level again, lips parting on sight and beating Sasha to answer just as the mercenary gives her a quiet laugh._

_“Ah━she’s… our bodyguard,” Becky interrupts ━ so quick, so immediate that Sasha’s mouth harshly closes with her teeth clacking together, and she turns to the frantic woman with quizzical, irked features. “Precautionary bodyguard,” her explanation follows with a smoothness to it, paired with a smile and shaky laugh. “Can never be too careful about these things.”_

_Bayley seems utterly convinced and unquestioning about it, pursing her lips and nodding with acceptance despite Becky’s clear, nervous cut-in and her words soaked in trepidation. The others aren’t so convinced by her tone, on the other hand, with Sasha’s wide-eyed stare burning a hole through Becky’s temple as the redhead refuses to stare back. Like always, she can’t afford to. With each, passing second, the mercenary’s eyes begin to narrow, her posture becoming less abrasive ━ as far as Becky can tell ━ and that’s when she’s finally glanced at. The Irish woman gives her a pointed, “Please, just go with it” expression that’s just enough to speak the words she can’t say in front of the others, eyebrows raising with desperately sealed lips._

_Even if Sasha was convinced by it, even if she was willing to relent within mere pockets of time after Becky ran her answer over with a bullshit one of her own, Charlotte isn’t the least bit impressed or persuaded. From the haste of Becky’s response, she already knows what’s going on, and her arms cross with intent while turning away from the group, shaking her head in disappointment._

_Becky wishes to tilt her head to the ceiling. She wishes to slam her eyes shut and pretend she never said anything. She wishes to take back what she said, actually, and she wishes to come clean._

_She wishes to stop being that same body of disappointment._

_A deep breath fills her lungs, inconspicuous enough for Sasha and Bayley to ignore, but enough to gain a side-eye from Charlotte who is still facing away from her for the majority._

_Hesitantly, Sasha directs her attention to Bayley again, tilting her head to the side with a prying yet diluted grin._

_“You’re new to this scene, aren’t you?”_

_What she sincerely wants to ask is if Becky has informed her on everything regarding the mission yet ━ all the extreme danger, the cliffs, the heights, the shooting, the explosions, the plausible death. Plausible if things go awry, that is. Either way, even if things_ don’t _go awry, there’s always the possibility of a misstep, or a fall, or a crash, or anything you can think of when on a vacant, unknown island. Overall, she wants to question how prepared the brunette is ━ this newcomer who appears so untainted that she’s nearly glowing with anticipation ━ and, if she had no tact, she’d even want to ask if Bayley knows how to shoot a damn gun, just in case._

_The novice glint in the driver’s eye is beyond self-explanatory, though, and it basically confirms most ━ if not all ━ of Sasha’s rightful skepticism. God, it’s been a freaking minute, and she could already strangle the Irish woman._

_“Only been camping a few times,” following the brief pause, Bayley states her response rather proudly, and Sasha feels like she’s going to combust._

_In fact, her blood pressure rises so high at the answer that she nearly lifts her hand to her head, ready to massage away the acute migraine that bangs between her temples._

_Becky notices Sasha’s hidden distress, merely catching on once the purple-haired woman turns to her with a tight-lipped smile and silent proclamation that she’s already in hot water. It’s only countered by the redhead’s “innocent” grin, realistically, being so fauxly un-suspicious that Sasha catches onto her nonverbal admission of knowing how fucked it is._

_Again, the mercenary wants to lean her head back and groan, and she can tell that Charlotte wishes to do the same when the blonde eyes Becky for two, whole seconds with a pointedness that speaks volumes, but she decides that, if shit goes south, she’ll just have to protect Bayley that much more._

_She’ll just have to be that much more of a “body guard.”_

_“A real newbie, huh?” deliberately letting her gaze drift lower before returning to smile at Bayley, she traps her tongue between her teeth and closes her mouth, then hums in Becky’s direction._

_Sasha’s chilling demeanor, alone, is enough to make the redhead’s smile die down until it’s completely erased, aware that she’s already managed to write herself at the top of both the mercenary and historian’s list of disappointment. It’s saddening, but she can’t harp on it now. Not when Sasha’s bitter attitude proficiently threatens to expose her real profession to Bayley, and not when she continues to feel Charlotte’s eyes pierce through her soul like she’s non-existent._

_Clapping her hands together firmly with a sudden “Alright,” the decision comes that it’s best to escape the conversation while she still can, and she gains their collective attention._

_“We best get on with it, yeah?” a new, synthetic and toothy grin is given to the others, the grand wave of her arm gesturing to the airport’s main doors. “Dinner reservations are at seven. Don’t want to be late.”_

So, Becky admits it: not explaining to Bayley the ins and outs of treasure hunting isn’t bound to be an award-winning idea on her part. But it’s not as if she hasn’t _wanted_ to clue her in on what may or may not happen on the island. It’s not like she wants to leave her in the dark about it, or pretend everything is ━ without a doubt ━ going to be peachy. It’s just that, whenever Becky attempts to initiate the conversation with the brunette, she flashes back to when the woman had first stepped through customs.

Right then, Becky could tell that the entire experience ━ even being in such an exotic country ━ would be a whole realm of firsts. Her eyes glistened with intrigue, lips remained parted in wonderment while taking everything in, piece by piece, color by color, scent by scent. Hell, Bayley was even fascinated by the airport, itself, and even more enthralled when they all slid into a cab and she caught her first glimpse of the outside scenery. Within minutes, once on the main road, they passed the town’s main market, every color imaginable making up the fruit and vegetable stands, the souvenir carts, and the massive, dated church behind it. All the while, her face was practically smushed against the window, so enthralled that Becky caught Sasha glance in the brunette’s direction, only to chuckle and force her lips sealed. Now, _that_ intrigued _Becky._

Truthfully, she can’t help it if she treads carefully when it comes to Bayley; she wants to ease the woman into things with more tact than simply confessing that Sasha is a mercenary who shoots to kill, doesn’t think twice, and is doing it for fifty million. She wants to do it with more tact than outright explaining the situations that they could wind up tangled in, or how the majority of her past missions have concluded with “kill or be killed” scenarios.

Sasha was right when she called Bayley a real newbie, and, truth be told, Becky wonders if she’s ━ _again_ ━ bitten off more than she can chew. She’s never been cut out to be a leader, and always preferred having a partner to walk alongside her ━ even one that would, occasionally, take the reigns and show her how it’s done.

And Becky supposes that’s another reason why she’s never hired anyone before; she never wanted to feel responsible for whatever happened. She never wanted to feel more droplets of guilt than when she did in the instance she lost Paige as a result of her selfishness. She never wanted to lead someone into a trap, or miss a clue that ended in peril. There was only one time when she lead another person. That person just so happens to be sitting to her left, looking as though she wishes she was anywhere but here. It’s no secret how that one time turned out, and it’s no secret that one time is what ultimately made up Becky’s mind when it came to flat-out hiring other people.

It’s easier to work beside someone as opposed to leading them because you’re not bringing them into the equation, or convincing them to go; they willingly went _with_ you, and they made that decision. It’s not on you if something happens. Even if you still feel sadness, or mourning, you weren’t in charge. It wasn’t your fault.

But, just like ‘fessing up to her feelings and managing her words, responsibility has never been Becky’s strong suit, and here she is already making a mess.

She can tell that Charlotte is pissed about it, too, and Becky can practically see the wheels turning in the blonde’s mind. Back at the airport, she could tell that it reminded her of what happened during their last treasure hunt together. Going into it, the then-reporter was hardly aware of what they’d be facing ━ despite Becky vaguely lecturing her on the dangers of it, prior. You just never know how you’ll react to a brush with death ━ or _three_ instances of it ━ until you’re actually face to face with it, and then you realize that you weren’t prepared at all.

It’s clear that Charlotte doesn’t wish that upon Bayley ━ shit, neither does _Becky_ ━ but it appears as though none of them are willing to confront her about it. Becky suspects that Charlotte’s lack of informing Bayley is merely a testament to what she and Sasha think: the brunette’s untainted persona, her childlike personality and bright-eyed-bushy-tailed smile is too much to shatter, too sweet and so unlike the rest of them. Compared to Bayley, they’re all overused by the universe, pushed around, bitten, swallowed, and choked back out onto the floor. Bayley is soft, whereas they’re rigid.

And maybe ━ just maybe ━ they’re all equally as selfish, wanting to keep that little piece of endearance close by, coddling it until the very last second. In the end, they’re all just as careful, and no one wants to taint her free mindset.

After what feels like an hour of untested communication following their meal, Becky carefully removes the cloth napkin from her lap and puts it on the table. Three pairs of eyes stare at her through caution, silent question of where she’s going as her chair pushes out from the table.

“If everyone’s all set, we can head back to the motel,” it’s a stiff motion, but she nods in the direction of where they’re staying.

Bayley ends up being the only individual who hums in acknowledgement, the other two simply following suit by tossing their napkins onto the table and pushing their chairs out with quiet scuffs against smooth stone. Becky’s hand slips into her pocket and pulls out a bundle of local currency, flipping through it and delicately placing it with one corner tucked beneath a plate. From the threshold dividing the outside patio from the restaurant’s interior dining room, Sasha watches Becky slip the remainder of money back into her pocket, raising her eyebrows until the redhead turns to her with a confused, surprised smile to know she’s being assessed.

It earns a half-hearted eye-roll ━ which, quite honestly, Becky dubs a small win ━ before Sasha turns away, the four of them weaving between closely set tables within the restaurant’s main area. As they leave, each of the three women ━ save the treasure hunter, herself ━ give a polite nod to the servers, Becky ultimately gesturing to where they exited in a nonverbal way of telling the chef that their money’s on the table. Due to the redhead’s previous attendance at their restaurant when she first arrived in the quaint, market town, her word ━ or lack thereof ━ is enough to trust, so he also give her a thumbs-up, getting a chuckle at the emphatic, silly-looking motion. She meant it when she said they’re hospitable in the town, and she wouldn’t mind settling down here, someday.

Someday, but not today.

Walking back to the motel is easy, practically a straight line until they hit its entrance. With darkness coating the streets, the route is now even more culture-expressive than it was before the sun set, and Becky feels her lips twitching into a faded smile. Lights line the sidewalk, both colored and plain yellow to contrast the blackened sky, people play music outside while laughing together, and other citizens file out of the market with pieces of food and vibrant outfits.

Up ahead, she can see Bayley getting distracted as she walks, still basking in the new sights without tripping over anything or colliding with another individual on the sidewalk. Otherwise, the three other women walk behind one another, carrying their baggage of silence like a sack of leftovers from the restaurant. Just another testament to how awkward their outing has been, and how no one wants to bring up the elephant in the room: the fact that they’ll be setting out for sea tomorrow morning, setting out to find Avery’s treasure, or simply to rediscover the trail that’s gone cold here.

Becky still has yet to inform them on how she’s calculated where to go, how she uncovered the one, specific island where the last clue pointed toward, and that’s the objective of the plan she decides to announce once they come to a standstill on the motel’s front walkway.

“Um,” great start ━ she muses to herself with a mental poke, “if you’d like to join, I’ll be makin’ a fire on the beach, right over there.”

With their attention set on her, she gestures to the bay, a series of what look to be stubby trash cans set on the sand every now and then. They’re all vacant, a multitude of chairs surrounding each.

“But it’s up to you.”

Once her reiteration was in the air between them, she could swear she heard an immediate sigh come from Charlotte, the blonde turning away and licking her lips before sealing them shut. Becky tries to ignore it, she really does, but it causes her to bow her head with apprehension focused on twiddling her fingers. Though she doesn’t witness it with her chin tilted downward, Sasha’s eyes remain zoned out across the beach, while Bayley comes off as the only one who _doesn’t_ want to say “no,” only further confirmed when she answers, “Let me change, first,” with a light attitude.

A single agreement to the proposal takes her by surprise ━ more than it should, really ━ and the redhead nods with slight extremity, “Oh, yeah, of course,” as she tries to be courteous, welcoming and understanding as possible. She can’t help but allow her focus to drift to Charlotte, afterwards, then to Sasha as the two reluctantly nod in what appears to be a mirrored response. Without a word coming from the historian or the mercenary, all four girls depart, destined to find their respective, motel rooms along the straight stretch of building.

Earlier, the three new tourists found that each room had been prepaid and stocked with new pairs of climbing boots ━ fitted accordingly ━ in advance for when they arrived, gifted to them by the treasure hunter. Becky meant it when she said she wanted them to feel comfortable, no matter how far she needs to stick her neck out, no matter how much she needs to spend or do to bring them some type of minor coziness before they set off to pick up on the trail. So far, it’s mainly come in the form of paying for their airfare, motel rooms, boots, and meals. She’d pay for anything else they’d request, too. It’s a small price for getting them to accept her offer, considering how insane of a concept it remains.

Unfortunately, Becky senses that, to Charlotte, it seems as though she’s trying to buy their affection, the acceptance and understanding, but that’s truly not the case. To Charlotte, everything she does apparently comes up short, but she supposes that’s another price she’s paying ━ even if it’s something she never intended to pay for. Those looks of disappointment continue to come, one after another, more and more frequently ━ but never as strong as the one she was given years ago.

Either way, they’re no easier to swallow now than in that one instance back then, and Becky’s throat grows sore every time she feels her heart weighing mutually as heavy as Charlotte’s. Because, on the flip side, she knows Charlotte is still aching from their travels together, that she still flashes back to everything they shared ━ one night where their lips nearly brushed ━ and how she believed they were on the same page. She knows every shitty feeling is probably nipping at the blonde’s resolve, begging to destroy everything she’s worked so hard to repair, and the two of them traveling together after her heart managed to heal itself, even in the slightest… that must be difficult. This time, Becky can empathize.

But, evidently, repaying her emotional debts to the blonde is certainly proving to be a lot tougher than she planned for. With that being said, she’s not ready to give up just yet. She has four years to make up for, and that’s not something you take lightly. That’s not something you can pave over within the span of a day, or even a week, month, so forth. That’s not something easily wiped away with the stroke of her thumb against the silky skin of Charlotte’s cheek.

Her feet take her up to the face of her door, breathing out through her nostrils while pushing a rusted, silver key into the lock and turning. The door partly sticks before it’s successfully opened, the outside air’s moisture polishing the hinges until Becky’s strength gets the upper hand. Within the next second, the lights are flicked on, illuminating the space as she sluggishly drags herself along the carpet until she’s at the lone desk pressed against the wall.

There, her various documents and journal entries lie scattered, a single pile tacked to the wood as if it’s a bundle of previous orders at an old diner. Her eyes scan through the desk’s contents, seeking one paper that’s imperative for the night’s conversation until it’s located at the very top of the piece of furniture, tucked beneath her brown cowhide journal. The next object to be snatched is a burnt-orange-colored coin, carefully slid into her pocket, followed by a flimsy box of matches as her teeth absentmindedly chew at her inner cheek.

She hesitates, next, when her eyes glance in the direction of two bottles she had purchased for the occasion of kicking this adventure off, picturing a small celebration and at least a single round of smiles the night beforehand while treating her team to something nicer than an odd vacation, boots, and dinner.

Tequila and whiskey, similar but oh-so-different in personality, just like the women who’ve decided to join her.

The problem is that she’s starting to realize they’re _so_ different, it seems they can’t put those oppositions aside in order to cooperate, in order to communicate or even _attempt_ to. It seems their personalities clash _too_ much, not to mention some of their egos, or pasts, or presents, or _whatever._ Then again, Becky has been trying to make them comfortable while pretending she isn’t uncomfortable, herself. It’s hard getting to know new people in such a short amount of time, particularly when you know you’re bound to face some danger together, or when you know you’ll have to rely on someone other than yourself. Will they save you if things get hairy? Will you save them? Will they question your motives? Will they _believe_ you?

It’s not like Becky’s given them any reason to believe her, either, which is far scarier, far riskier. She hasn’t even explained to them what she’s found yet, or how she knows _anything_ about Avery ━ when she began searching for him, _why_ she began searching for him. They don’t know _anything,_ and that’s _her_ fault. It’s all her fault.

No wonder they’re silent.

For a moment, her eyes find home in the wall of spare maps and scribbles, wondering if she should just slip back through her door and tell the others she’s changed her mind about the fire. Or about _everything._ For a moment, she feels like a coward, a mix of terrible feelings all but driving through her chest as an outcome of knowing she’s either going to have to open herself to new people, or revert back to single-player. All of it’s by her own making, all of it’s by her own fault, and by her own selfishness.

However, that’s just another reason as to why she _should_ go out there, right? Shouldn’t she prove that she’s still making an effort, despite how tense everything has been? Shouldn’t she continue pushing for peace amongst her team no matter what’s held against her? No matter what they think of that selfish treasure hunter named Becky Lynch?

Shouldn’t she be open, for once, and face the universe that so-often punishes her? Shouldn’t she take a chance?

A shaky breath seeps out through clenched teeth shown by a grimace, Becky rolling her shoulders and neck as if it’ll loosen them enough to feel settled and carefree. It doesn’t help much ━ not that she thought it would ━ but it gives her just the right amount of decision to walk back outside, right after she slips the two bottles and tin cups into a spare bag and slings it over her shoulder. She doesn’t even bother to change, knowing that no variation of soft garment could soothe her woes about confronting the others.

So, with her pointer finger flipping the light-switch downward, the space reverts to its darken state before she’s passing over the threshold and locking the door behind her, ultimately taking that chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was saying… 
> 
> A heads-up: I’m doing this fic-writing tactic differently than I used to. For previous stories, I’d crap out chapter after chapter super easily, but, since then, my mind has become less and less focused, and I don’t want to rush this story since there’s so much content I have outlined. It doesn’t help that winter is a toughy for my mental health, so I hardly want to do anything lately. BUT! I love this universe so much, so I’ll somehow build up the strength to get everything tidy. Right now, I have chapter eight nearly finished (first draft), so that’s good. Not sure how fast updates will be… but I hope you can be patient with little ole me. I promise to provide good content in reimbursement for that patience. Anyway, thank you!
> 
> Also: Chapter six will be posted soon enough, so look out for it if you're down to join the 4HW at a tense little bonfire with Becky telling pirate tales.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee, wiz! Thank you for the comments once again! Whether I receive them on here or on Tumblr or on Twitter, thank you, thank you, thank you. They've eased my worries about absentmindedly letting the story sag this early on. I'm trying my best to stay confident with it, but sometimes it's difficult. After all, this is going to be the first action story I'm writing ever, so I hope I cover all the bases in every scene. We'll see when we get to there, but we still have a few chapters before they actually make it to the island. Little by little, we're easing our way over there.
> 
> Nonetheless, have a nice time at the bonfire!

SAT., 8:47 P.M.

* * *

Descending the lone step off the sidewalk, her boots take her across the cold and dark, pebbly beach with the sound of crunching being the only thing she hears atop the waves’ crashing.

Her eyes look out at the ocean as she approaches where they’ll be hanging out, noting the water’s gradual depth that eventually blends with the shade of the sky, bright stars bouncing off a sea of ink before her. She’s almost entirely sucked into the image when she walks straight into the fire pit ━ or rusty, shortened trash can ━ with a hollow, metallic thump snapping her back into reality.

“Nice one, Becks,” she whispers beneath her breath, rolling her eyes before flicking a match across its box’s silver strip until it ignites, ready to be dropped into the already-stocked cylinder.

An immediate warmth engulfs her exposed skin, face brightened with an orange hue that displays more tenderness than when her fiery hair is stuck to her skin after a nightmare. Her features are soft, kiddish, as she reaches for the nearby fire poker to assist in creating a bigger flame.

“Better than any campfire I’ve ever seen.”

When she turns to the approaching voice, Bayley gives her a gentle smile while stepping closer across the sand, Becky seeing that she’s now dressed in heather-grey sweatpants and a plaid flannel that’s baggier than the one she wore to dinner.

The statement extracts a chuckle from Becky’s throat, raising her eyebrows at the brunette.

“That saddens me to hear,” she makes a “yikes” face. “This is… _garbage.”_

Okay, that was unintentional, but it gets a giggle from Bayley who claims the seat to Becky’s left, the pair of women in the midst of getting comfortable along the hard, cheap beach chairs before a hushed conversation captures their attention. Becky raises her chin to glance toward Sasha and Charlotte, the two slowly making their way to the fire wearing similar, lazy outfits. Becky smiles, but it’s too bashful and emotionally tired to reveal to the others, so she bows her head until it’s dropped from her features.

Once Charlotte and Sasha are closer, she observes them more in depth, the blonde’s hair in its natural state as if she’d run her hands through it an assortment of times whilst preparing herself for this end-of-the-night gathering ━ a strong likelihood being out of stress. Like the mercenary that sits on Bayley’s left, across from Becky but at a minute angle, Charlotte’s torso is engulfed in an old hoodie, however hers is logoed at the pocket with the University of Oslo’s crest whereas Sasha’s is a plain, charcoal grey with tied drawstrings chewed at the tips.

Their muffled words drift off until they’re entirely dead to the world once the two are settled into their chairs, not to say they look at maximum comfort with Charlotte staring into the fire, eyes fixated on the charred wood within the bin as Sasha itches at her arm and refuses to lean back further. Their obvious and unsettled desperation to keep on their toes ━ as if Becky is keeping them held captive ━ is noted by the treasure hunter, sealing her lips and nodding to no one in particular. But, again, she tries to ignore their lack of reception to her attempts at making amends. Instead, she assess Sasha’s body language and interest in the scab on her forearm, her focus wandering in hopes that she’ll find something to comment on in order to kick-start _some_ kind of conversation ━ and, then, she finds it.

“Pinky, I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

The tone that falls from her tongue is lighthearted, not teasing, like they’re kids on a playground. Sasha lifts her eyes as her motions still, fingertips remaining delicately touching the skin of her arm as if Becky had disturbed her process of thought ━ or scab-hunting.

“It doesn’t affect my work, if that’s what you’re getting at,” it comes via flat features, attitude tangled within the retort.

“No,” Becky simply purses her lips at the bite, sounding indifferent and unfazed to ensure Sasha that she means well, “I’m not worried at all.”

The mercenary only raises her eyebrows before going back to what she had been doing before the redhead’s interruption, abandoning the fleeting conversation with no more than a simple hum. Becky sighs without releasing the majority of the reaction, opting to leave Sasha be ━ for now.

Next, she turns in Charlotte’s direction, wishing she could somehow put the spotlight on the blonde without coming off as prying, or hexing with ill intentions. She wishes, for once, Charlotte would help her out, because God only knows she’s beginning to fail miserably with this whole, “getting to know her new partners” bullshit.

Much to her surprise, she does receive help after another minute of listening to the fire crackle between a group of women who’ve been stuck together all day, but it’s not from Charlotte. In actuality, it’s Bayley who comes to Becky’s rescue, and the treasure hunter’s mouth partly drops open in a mild shock before she snaps it closed.

“So,” the driver starts with extreme timidity, directing the impending statement or question at Sasha, “you’re a… bodyguard?”

The question is so unbelievably hesitant, careful yet still curious, and Becky wishes she could smile at how Bayley seemingly tries her hardest to stray from provoking Sasha further. She can’t smile, though, because the question delivers all sorts of anxieties and worries. She can’t smile, because she can’t help but feel like she’s walking barefoot on shards of glass as Sasha peers in her direction for less than the tick of a clock ━ not with snark, but with that underlying irritation regarding the situation.

She wants Becky to know that she’s not happy, not proud, that she’s encouraging this “less than truthful” concept when it comes to Bayley, but even the Irish woman can tell that Sasha isn’t about to be the one who lets her down. There’s something humane in the mercenary’s eyes, something gentle and kind that’s only shown around the most faultless member of their group. There’s a softness, like Bayley’s temperament is contagious, and Sasha is the one who’s contracted it the most.

“Uh, yeah?” at Bayley’s reserved attitude, Sasha finds herself answering quietly, confusingly, eyeing the brunette while wishing she could be completely honest ━ _against_ Becky’s wishes. “Why?”

She shrugs one shoulder, mouth opening and closing, “I wouldn’t have guessed, that’s all.”

“Because of the glasses?” Sasha wants to snort at the implication ━ also at the way Bayley’s eyes widen in defense once she asked, as if she’d insulted her and won’t be able to earn forgiveness.

“No, no, just… your personality, and you don’t seem all… _broody.”_

It pulls a tiny smirk from Sasha, one corner of her lip tugged upward in the smallest amount, but it’s swiftly cut back when Becky joins in and teases, “She’s not mean enough for ya?”

Suddenly, the mercenary’s attitude returns.

“She hasn’t done anything to piss me off,” to her own astonishment, the statement is more so in defense of Bayley while using the question as a weapon against Becky, irritation wholeheartedly targeted at the treasure hunter whose face drops. “She’s fine.”

For the first time, Becky doesn’t care about waiting for an opening, or being patient enough to sway their trust one way or another with sweet words and caution. For the first time, her exhaustion nips her in the ass so sharply that she allows it to get the best of her, and dried eyes shoot straight through Sasha with pleading undertones, posture slumped.

“But I _have_ done something?” unfortunately, a laugh of disbelief also comes out, sounding demeaning in placement of begging like she’d ━ for once ━ hoped. “I hardly know you.”

Silence answers her question. Just like earlier, everything goes quiet, like a pin could drop and they’d still hear it over the ocean that crashes beside them, over the fire that cracks between them, and roars when a log topples over. No one wants to pop the bubble that domes over them, separating their group from the outside world. Their insufferable energy constructed it, and they’ve sadly found the only comfort within that bubble of verbal solitude. Even Bayley sinks lower into her chair, caught off guard by Sasha’s tone despite her not being the one scorned by it, the brunette’s eyes drifting above the fire to get a good look at each of her partners. Sasha’s jaw tightens while she forcibly looks away, likely in attempt to calm herself down, and Charlotte seals her lips with an anxious side-eye focused on the mercenary.

Meanwhile, Becky still waits for an answer, but she begins to believe that nothing will come. Actually, she wouldn’t even be surprised if Sasha flat-out abandoned them at the fire without another word or a simple “Goodnight.” Those beliefs are derailed after Sasha locks eyes with Charlotte, however, before she _does_ give Becky a response ━ not to say it’s much to capitalize on, if _anything._

“Just drop it,” she whispers, and the redhead looks between the two without mentioning the obvious, eye-spoken conversation that transpired within that short second.

She’s about to go on a rant. She’s about to release her tensions by spouting how she knows they don’t trust her, how she’s given them plenty of reasons to _not_ trust her, and how she regrets the tactic of practically targeting their weaknesses in order to achieve her objective in them joining her on this trip. She’s about to tell them that they can still change their minds, that they have the option of walking away and never looking back. Without explanation, if need be. She’s about to give up, throw it all away, bury it in the sand, put out that burning fire within herself.

She’s about to do it all, but the words refuse to be heard while holding onto her tongue for dear life, and maybe she’s grateful that they manage to stay hidden behind her teeth. Because, as difficult as this is ━ as heart wrenching as it is to watch their internal conflict highlighted by an orange fire, as excruciating as it is getting to know new people after two years of being without that intimacy ━ she’s admittedly enjoyed their company. No matter how tense, no matter how thick the air, she’s been happy to see both old and new faces, no matter what kind of disappointing looks they wear at points. She doesn’t want to let that type of interaction slip through her fingers just yet, and she guesses that’s another drop of selfishness running through her veins.

But she’s only human, and no human wants to be alone.

So, with a deep exhale as she purses her lips, pushing a funny sound into the air, she sits up and leans over to rifle through her bag with a clinking sound absorbing the curiosity of the others, three pairs of eyes watching the Irish woman pull four, tin cups and two bottles from the satchel.

“Tequila and whiskey? Really?” it’s Sasha who mentions it, narrowing her eyes and making a face. _“Straight?”_

“Why not?” Becky counters, sounding daring in her own right. “Just chug it or sip it,” a faint smirk crosses her lips, then she peeks around the fire at each team member. “Anyone? Anyone?”

Much to Becky’s surprise ━ or maybe it shouldn’t be, judging by her normal, bold persona ━ Sasha is the first to nod at the tequila bottle with the curt lift of her chin, some of the liquid being poured into a tin cup and passed to Charlotte so she can give it to the mercenary. Bayley is next to ask for some tequila, as well, Becky happily complying and presenting the brunette her own tin cup with a gentle “Here you go,” before her head is tilted toward Charlotte.

“And you?”

Internally, Charlotte snickers about the lack of “Your Majesty” tailing Becky’s question, calm, brown eyes staring in her direction with a prominent reflection of the fire making them appear just as orange as the woman’s hair. For a moment, the blonde’s features soften, her mental tension alleviating at the sight, but not enough to be acknowledged by Becky, herself. For a moment, she gets lost, and she nearly smiles at the subtle nature of Becky’s normally wild personality. For a moment, it feels like they’re suddenly the only two by the moonlit ocean, remembering her single most favorite night that she spent with Becky years ago, and how that night nearly concluded in multiple firsts, and━

_God._

That moment is enough to accept a drink, whether it’s out of nervousness regarding her old feelings resurfacing, or for the mere idea of wanting Becky to be content so they can get this night over with, so she can escape her meshed thoughts and memories.

“Whiskey, please,” she requests before sealing her lips ━ right until the redhead’s eyebrows raise in surprise with a chuckle coming forth, and Charlotte feels the need to frown. “What’s so funny?”

“I didn’t take you as a whiskey person,” Becky comments, and gets a partial nod while pouring the blonde’s drink of choice.

“Oh, I’m not,” she confirms. “I love tequila. I just have no intention of enjoying myself _that much_ right now.”

Sasha snickers into her cup, lips against the rim, especially at the way Becky’s movements halt for a beat before returning to pouring Charlotte’s drink until it’s a tad more than halfway full. Although the blonde didn’t intend to be so brash, she supposes that there’s always some leftover malice that she doesn’t plan for when it comes to the treasure hunter ━ especially when she feels so cornered, so exposed and de-shelled, and especially when former emotions begin to resurface.

Still, she feels her heart recoil on Becky’s behalf, even more deeply when the redhead won’t look in her direction, even when giving her a quiet “Here” and bestowing her with the tin cup.

Charlotte wants to apologize. She wants to explain how these types of moments, awaiting a big adventure, are anything _but_ sentimental or joyous to her. Anything _but_ cuddly, cozy, and something to celebrate. Quite frankly, she’s been shaking in her skin since the day Becky waltzed into the museum, the blonde becoming so jumpy that she nearly snapped at her boss later that night, then early the next morning. She even paused before passing through the boarding gate to fly here, constantly asking herself if she’s sure about this. No, she’s not sure, but there’s still something about it ━ some _intrigue,_ or some possession of her soul ━ that draws her to keep pushing forward. Maybe she _didn’t_ gag on that abrupt addiction back then.

Maybe, alternatively, she only hid it behind her teeth, pretending it was gone until that gorgeous treasure hunter stepped foot into the museum with her cunning smile and sparkling eyes. Maybe that was enough to bring the illness out ━ even if it wasn’t Becky’s intention. Even if she has no idea the real story behind Charlotte’s caution, or dismay…

She swallows hard.

The moment of wanting to apologize passes over them, flying over Charlotte’s head like an ash from the fire as she rubs her lips together then braces herself to taste the whiskey. As expected, once she raises the cup to her mouth and that first drop of dark liquid stings her tongue, she has to focus hard enough to stop the cringe of her face. She’s _really_ not a whiskey fan, but keeps with her hardened features in battle of Becky’s faintly amused side-eye, all while the Irish woman pours her own cup of the same liquor. Charlotte wants to ask why she’s having whiskey when she’s known her to enjoy tequila. She wonders if it’s another way of Becky one-upping her, this time around, or asserting dominance within their unspoken conversation. But she pretends she isn’t paying much attention to it; after all, she’s only here to help Becky get that treasure, and nothing else.

No ulterior motive to get to know her again. No desire to find out what the woman has been up to since they last saw each other, and absolutely no _care_ of hearing Becky’s side of things regarding what happened between them years ago. Nope.

She takes another sip, willingly torturing her body with more whiskey.

“How ‘bout you tell us about this ‘adventure’ we’re going on,” Sasha breaks through the tense atmosphere again, only the fire previously disrupting the thick serenity with cracks and scuffles of logs turning to char.

Becky’s eyes raise from the glowing, burnt wood, finishing up sifting through the remains of kindling within the cylinder to make sure it keeps providing its warmth. She takes a breath, muttering, “Alrighty, then,” before brushing her hands against the thighs of her grey jeans once she sits back down.

A small amount of whiskey trickles down her throat with intention to warm her insides just as much as the heat on her skin from the fire, maybe even with intention to loosen herself up to recount the story. The three other women adjust their positions atop the hard chairs, getting comfortable with cold sand beneath them. Bayley appears most invested in what Becky is about to say, not knowing much ━ if _anything_ ━ about the trip aside from it revolving around a pirate’s bounty. Also aside from it being illegal. Sasha, to the brunette’s left, waits for the story, as well, her enthusiasm a shade more stagnant with narrowed eyes and an expressionless face. The least revealing facade is Charlotte’s, however, and the blonde’s arms cross against her stomach as her cup is loosely grasped in her hand, resting on her sleeve as her eyes dance with the fire.

She readies herself to recall everything from the very start, hoping she can be vague enough when touching upon the details of her ventures with Paige. It’s not that she doesn’t want to let them know what happened, but more so the fact that she knows she’ll reopen a vulnerable wound for herself if she even relatively acknowledges her best friend’s death. She can’t afford to do that tonight, in particular ━ A.K.A. the night before the biggest trip of all. The night before she quite possibly finds Avery’s treasure and puts all of this sadness, this tenderness, to bed.

“Hello?” again, Sasha tries pushing her along, wishing to snap in the direction of Becky’s fleeing eyes.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” she shakes her head, slamming her eyelids shut with her face contorting before she can regain a sense of reality. “Um… before I begin, does… everyone know who Henry Avery is?” scanning their faces individually, Bayley outright shakes her head with Sasha pursing her lips and squinting one eye, and Charlotte nods.

“Guess this calls for a recap, then,” Becky chuckles, scratching her jaw with two fingers before settling her hands in her lap ━ along with her cup. “Henry Avery, in short, was one of the richest pirates in history,” her words begin animated, preset to tell the story with excellence and already enthralled by the events she’s about to order. “Those riches came from the obvious━piracy━but primarily this one, _specific_ heist where he and _hundreds_ of other pirates ambushed the Mughal fleet. What that was… it’s not important to the story, but, anyway, after days, _eighteen million_ became his crews’, and that was only back then. Today? _Phew…”_

Becky blinks hard and tries to erase the self-given, dopey smile from her face, but it only strengthens when she looks up to see Bayley paying unwavering attention, ready and willing to be exposed to such a new world. It’s adorable, the redhead decides, and she chooses to continue with the same enthusiasm despite the other two women judging her with straight faces. If nothing else comes from her story, Bayley’s enthrallment is enough of a reward.

“The thing is… everyone thought he died before that. He and those other hundreds of pirates… _gone,”_ she suddenly whispers, leaning forward a fraction, “but there was _never_ evidence to that. There was never a single clue━aside from his wrecked ship━that Avery, _himself,_ perished in that fleet,” her tongue drags along her lower lip when it feels dry from the fire. “So, the tale goes that his ship took the brunt of the journey, sank, they lost _plenty_ of men, but Avery…” a chuckle interrupts. “That bastard completed the mission with the help of a few other, big-name pirates, taking that bounty and hauling it away without noble society finding out.”

She takes a deep breath, slowly raising her pointer finger and changing direction, _“But,_ what _we’re_ after came years after that heist, and, _man,_ it makes that raid look like child's play.”

There’s a devious glint that flashes in the brown of her eyes, Becky momentarily finding solace in psyching herself up for the order of events she has to explain, everyone invested in the story without moving to interrupt ━ still, with a variation of facial expressions.

“Three years ago, Avery’s trail caught my eye, more than it ever had when I was younger, less experienced,” Becky clears her throat. “It didn’t add up. I didn’t know if I was missing a piece to the puzzle, I didn’t know if it was just something you couldn’t find in a━a library, _something,”_ an exhale comes through her nose, calming herself. “I didn’t understand how he could simply _vanish._ This massive pirate name with others━Thomas Tew, Mayes, Farrell━just… _gone._ The treasure from that heist, also gone. The Mughal fleet, too. It was beyond coincidental, and when you understand pirates like _I_ understand pirates, you know that coincidences don’t exist.”

Charlotte nods slightly, but doesn’t interrupt. She seals her lips.

“Me being me, I did some reading, a little background work, found the studies of a few retired treasure hunters, just waiting for their trail to be snatched up and reinvented,” Becky smiles, making a motion to express how she grabbed onto those trails like a thief. “I took the ball and ran with it, all the way to Saint Dismas’ Cathedral in the Scotland tundra. There, I _should’ve_ found Avery’s long-lost treasure, according to sources, but I didn’t. I dug, and I dug, and I _dug_ some more, but I found nothing,” she sighs, remembering what’s next. “So, my partner and I put the hunt on hold. It was no use going mad over,” her voice sinks to a whisper, also lowering her head.

“What changed?”

Becky raises her chin to look at Bayley, voice small and kind, but also with her normal brand of curiosity laced within the question.

“What changed is I did go a little mad, but only _after_ putting it on hold,” it comes with a laugh that’s more regretful and guilty than anything, shaking her head at how she turned out. “All this time, I’ve just needed to find it. I’ve needed to find this treasure, for…” her voice trails off.

For _Paige._ For them. For her sanity, her peace of mind, her exhaustion, her _everything._

She shakes her head harder this time, as if to erase a picture on an Etch A Sketch, until she’s able to force a batch of makeshift confidence.

“What mostly changed is the fact that I found a new clue pointing in an _actual_ direction, only _feet_ from where I had been digging in Scotland. Imagine that.”

Sasha raises her eyebrows, knuckles bent against her mouth with her elbow digging into the chair’s left arm.

“That whole time, I had been sifting around through the rubble of the cathedral, when I should’ve been searching the eastern cemetery only feet away. Christ,” her tongue pushes against her bottom lip, popping it outward while rolling her eyes at both herself and the universe.

“How’d you know to search there, then?” it’s Sasha’s turn to inquire about an element of the story, and Becky clears her throat after taking a sip of her whiskey, wiping her mouth afterwards.

“It’s actually kinda humorous,” she chuckles while straightening her back, Charlotte taking a breath at Becky’s prior definition of what it means to be humorous. “In one of the hunters’ journals, I had read about a handheld version of Saint Dismas’ cross, like an artifact, and its importance to the puzzle. It didn’t say how, and it was so briefly touched upon that I skimmed over it the first time. Funny how that works, huh?” she bears her teeth for a beat. “So, I’m thinking about this cross finally, and, what do you know? It’s on auction at the Rossi Estate, belonging to one of the wealthiest Italian families. Just _days_ later. For me, that’s considered _lucky.”_

A quiet laugh comes from Bayley, the brunette thinking about their conversation at the race track and how the Irish woman said her luck isn’t the best. Judging by the impressed look on Becky’s face, that’s still true.

“So, I go there, dressed up in my fanciest server uniform. Into the backroom with a platter, snatch it up,” she makes a knocking sound with her tongue. “With a little elbow grease, it’s all mine. Straight Fire comes through again.”

“No security?” Sasha finds it hard to believe, gaze squinted.

 _“Heavy_ security,” Becky corrects. “But they never check the roofs. As long as you don’t lose your footin’, you’re golden.”

“And the cross?” Charlotte throws in her own question.

“Ah, yes,” a single nod follows. “Inside, a pirate _invitation,”_ the words are childishly amused, hushed but enunciated. “I didn’t know it, though. No,” her forehead creases while shaking her head. “All that time, I thought it was singular. The cross. I thought that━that it was the _treasure,_ but I was wrong. It turned out to be an invitation. To what? _To what?_ I had no idea,” various hand motions support her frantic state until they cease, the Irish woman itching her nose before her voice is more reserved. “Not until I read the bottom of the scroll, not until I saw Avery’s tombstone inscription on it. But, after I did, I went back to Scotland with a new mindset, new optimism.”

She pauses, then starts again, “There, I found a headstone with Avery’s alias. Benjamin Bridgeman. Below, a secret passage, all stone, statues, torches. Stained glass, even. I thought that’d be the end of it, but, _oh,_ it was only the beginning. Because out through that stained glass window built into the side of the passage, it pointed to a cave cut into the mountainside. A hole below three, stone crosses up top on the peak.”

Charlotte’s eyebrows furrow, falling more under the spell of the story without Becky paying attention to how anyone reacts now that she’s wholeheartedly invested in explaining what they’re after. Now, she practically talks to _herself,_ and the blonde seals her lips at the treasure hunter’s recollection, her passion and way of thinking, the way she speaks so animatedly with such _drive._ It’s as powerful as ever. If there’s one thing Becky will never stop loving, it’s the chase.

She blinks at the thought, heart sinking.

“Through the snow and around a few leaps, I trudged over to the cave and went inside where I found not Avery’s skull sigil, but Thomas Tew’s sigil of an arm holding a sword,” the whisper is derived from sheer fascination, like she’s still baffled even days upon days later. “Yeah, he was said to have died with Avery, but, even before then, they weren’t the best of friends. There’s no reason for him to be near Avery’s treasure. Not after the fact. They would’ve split it and made off. But, as I stood there in _befuddlement,_ I looked up above my head,” she pretends to do so, pointing to the stars, “and I found a sign.”

Sasha re-crosses her arms, a permanent, quizzical frown curving her mouth downward.

 _“‘For those who prove worthy, paradise awaits. For those who prove false, behold your grim fate,’”_ her eyebrows raise at the other women. “What a warm welcome, huh? Anyway, there I go, following the icy path underground. I had to complete a few, daunting tests that I assume I proved worthy against. I’m still here talking to all of you, after all. Could’ve gotten my hand chopped off, though,” she rolls her wrist around, shuddering. “Maybe an hour later, I found myself in this large room with a scale. One of those old, metal ones with plates on either side of a balancing beam. On one plate, a dozen coins that looked like they’re made of terracotta, and then a _beautiful,_ golden cross on the other, jewel-encrusted and _everything_ magnificent.”

As she speaks, her hands mimic the scale, palms facing up while flattened and fingers together, leveling them and watching her own movements before clapping to stun the others. Sasha could kill her, but instead she exhales and rubs her forehead while Charlotte shifts her jaw and Bayley clears her throat.

“And this is where I give you your first lecture,” she sits up straight, cup tactfully set into a makeshift cup holder in the sand next to her chair. “I don’t care if it’s common sense or not. You start to lose that common sense when you’re in the presence of high value and shiny objects,” suddenly, her voice drops into a serious realm, deep and immovable as she stares at the women nearby, one at a time. “If we ever walk into a room or clearing where there’s something that looks too good to be true━too _sudden_ or out of place━that’s because it _is._ Don’t touch it, don’t even take another step,” the tail end of a huff follows. “Not until I tell you to. Got it?”

They react to the emphasized, unexpected authority in an assortment of ways: Sasha’s jaw hardening despite not having an ounce of disagreement found in her body, Bayley nodding immediately, and Charlotte just staring, unblinking, at Becky who sighs, deflating.

“I may sound harsh right now, but there are worse things I could say to convince you to listen. Are we clear?”

Bayley nods with a prompt “Yeah, got it,” being the first to respond before the other two hum in reluctant agreement.

“Good,” she mirrors the brunette’s nod. “I say this because, had I taken that cross, I don’t think I’d be sitting here right now. I don’t know what would’ve happened, but…” her throat grows sore, knowing this is the scarier aspect of treasure hunting, and Bayley is wearing a small pout like she’s scratching to understand its severity. “The test was for greed. I know that now, but I had only completed the test on sheer instinct. Reached out, took a single coin while praying. You’ve always gotta pray, even if it’s not to anyone, in particular,” her eyes glisten, maybe even with unshed tears that are blinked away faster than they appeared. “Pray to yourself, if you must.”

The brief string of emotion dissipates as she fills her lungs with the sea air and scent of fire, quietness falling upon them like a blanket while she pulls herself together. But she doesn’t let it grab ahold of their night and throttle it. This time, she manages to keep a grasp on their captivation, and her enthusiasm returns with a suddenness.

Almost too much of a suddenness, in Charlotte’s opinion, like Becky cemented the gap from which her emotions began pooling. It’s like she refuses to let herself sulk, or even taste fear for longer than necessary. It causes her to duck her head while listening.

“Lo and behold, a shiny, lit-up map appeared on the ground below my feet, gold and bright, bright, _bright._ So, I wondered where on the map I was heading, specifically. It was an outline of Antongil Bay, just near here. I knew that. But there were no coordinates, no clue. _Until…”_ a smile rounds her cheeks, casually reaching into her pocket and holding up a coin pinched between two of her fingers, “I looked at this. An unmistakable volcano on its backside. And, what do ya know? There’s a volcano in Antongil Bay.”

Sasha purses her lips and nods with an actual portrayal of moderated excitement, fully following the trail in her mind.

“I came here, and, at daylight, began driving until I reached the base of the volcano. It’s extinct, by the way. I wasn’t coming until I was positive,” she chuckles at her own digression, sprinkling in a fun fact. “Like Scotland, this place is full of ruins, just a little hotter here. To _no one’s_ surprise, it’s also full of tunnels, too,” a sigh breaks up her memory. “I hate tunnels, I really do, but I went down, anyway. Right underneath a large tower built centuries ago. There, I found an even-bigger map than in Scotland, this time on the wall, a big, Saint Dismas cross smack dab in the middle. Also had multiple sigils on it. A dozen. All big-name pirates.”

Charlotte’s eyes observe the fire and how it dances despite dying down with every, passing minute. She gathers every piece of Avery’s puzzle without interruption or a bland sign that she’s paying attention, if Becky were to turn to her. Although she doesn’t portray it, she has to admit she’s impressed; the redhead has proven to hold way more information than anyone else who’s followed Avery’s trail in recent years ━ maybe even within history. She’s somehow managed to put together a broader, more-colorful and detailed picture of his travels, where life took him after disappearing. Maybe Henry Avery isn’t a hoax or a myth like fellow historians have claimed. It’s not that she ever sincerely believed that he was, but more so that there was nothing to exactly refute their claims.

Well, if there wasn’t evidence to refute those claims before, Becky sure as hell has a great argument going. She fades back into the story-telling, ignoring the exhaustion creeping into her bones.

“That’s when I finally realized it. Henry Avery was recruiting for a secret, pirate utopia,” Becky’s paired smile is childish, bright and toothy like she has the world in the palm of her hand. “God, all those sigils, the _biggest_ names in the pirating world. Avery, himself, then Tew. Adam Baldridge, Joseph Farrell,” she counts on her finger, tapping it, “Richard Want, Anne Bonny, Edward England, Christopher Condent, and, _shit,_ so many others.”

Her emphatic list is granted a deep breath by everyone else, collectively taking a minute to digest the information.

“The coin,” it’s held up a second time, “eventually brought me to the massive clocktower in the market. The one we passed earlier,” she purses her lips, pointing in its direction. “Man, I could’ve seen the rest of the country from up top,” her detour is more so for her own benefit, remembering the breeze against her skin as she climbed, along with the wonder of if anyone saw her up there ━ or if anyone cared.

She chuckles, shaking her head to refocus, “Instead, where did Avery take me? Back underground, naturally, but, this time, with a compass the size of a friggen’ _table,_ and it has these… these… metal plates with grooves in ‘em,” her struggle is an outcome of having so much to say in a short amount of time, eventually finding her footing. “They were all similar yet different, somehow. And I thought, ‘Back then, they wouldn’t have phones or technology. They’d use paper to take this down.’ After all, it was another clue, and everyone had to pass these tests to get to Paradise.”

At this, she extracts the second clue she brought to the beach with her, pulling it from her pocket and carefully unfolding the note so she can present it to her teammates with a breathed-out “Look at that.”

She first hands it to Charlotte, the blonde’s eyebrows furrowing as she reads what’s written in Latin: _“‘Pro Deus Qvod Licentia.’”_

Becky raises her chin a fraction, smirking, _“‘For God and For Liberty.’”_

“I don’t think that’s the exact translation,” the historian tilts her head to the side.

“Maybe not, but it’s _Avery’s_ translation,” Becky retorts, smug but gentle. “From his beginning, he’s made a name on that very phrase. His sigil on that map,” she points to it, still delicately held in Charlotte’s hands. _“That’s_ where we’re going. _That’s_ where we’ll find his treasure, and much more.”

Without a single ounce of acknowledgement, Charlotte hands it to Sasha who turns her head to the side, like it’ll help her read as her eyes squint and nose crinkles slightly, observing what’s pictured and commenting, “It’s in the middle of the ocean,” before giving it to Bayley.

“An island,” Becky expands on her discovery, hiding a question beneath. “Just northeast of here.”

With Bayley studying the small map, coordinates and odd shapes abound, Sasha shifts her jaw and gives Becky a curt “Huh,” followed by a smile and the admission “Okay” that all but says she’s buying it.

“If I’m right about this,” the Irish woman starts again, hushed, “and I _am_ right about this, we’re looking at Avery’s long-lost pirate colony. A pirate utopia. Hundreds━” she shakes her head to muffle her unintentional downplay of the size, _“thousands_ of pirates went there for a safe haven.”

“Wait,” the mercenary begins to laugh incredulously, like something has suddenly connected, just now. “You mean to tell me that all these big-name pirates pooled their money, and _that’s_ what we’re after?”

“They shared property, housing, money, the whole lot,” her smile grows.

Sasha looks surprised, eyebrows permanently raised to oppose the frown she originally wore, and Charlotte rubs her mouth with her hand, speechless yet pretending it’s an absentminded motion without relation to the topic at hand. Bayley just stares at Becky, muttering, “Woah,” once her eyes sink back down to the map between her fingers, before Sasha starts to darkly chuckle.

“I should’ve demanded half,” the mercenary mutters beneath her breath, directed at herself as the treasure hunter smirks hard.

“You _really_ should’ve.”

At first, she begins to laugh at Sasha’s misfortune, finding humor in the way the purple-haired woman takes her glasses off to pinch the bridge of her nose, but it gradually dies down without the remains of a grin vacating her face. Her odd alteration in attitude earns three pairs of eyes, Becky staring into the fire while pressing her tongue to her inner cheek, deep in thought. When she feels herself being stared at, she makes a face without looking up, like she’s at a loss for what to say, or conflicted to the point of not knowing how to express herself.

“D’ah,” it comes out in a mutter, Becky sealing her lips tightly while taking a deep inhale, “who knows, I may still divide a bigger cut between you three. Give myself the scraps.”

They look at her confusingly, Sasha raising her chin a bit.

“See, I don’t seek treasure for the money. I’ll admit that, sometimes, I do turn antiques in for monetary value, but I don’t want the lavish lifestyle,” her words are serious, and she almost refuses to make eye contact with anyone ━ a minor display of vulnerability she’s willing to admit to. “I don’t spend frivolously because I can. To me, finishing a hunt and _earning_ that treasure is reward enough,” she explains herself. “My old partner was the opposite, so a lot of our earnings fell into her lap,” it comes with a shrug, indifferent. “It’s all about the chase, for me.”

Charlotte looks down when Becky confirms her inner musings from before, unknowingly doing so while causing a sharp pain to push through the root of her heart. Unknowingly rejecting her. Unknowingly _disappointing_ her.

In hopes of keeping her emotions at bay, in hopes of keeping them from showing on her exterior, the blonde’s jaw clenches and arms tighten across her stomach.

“Maybe when I retire, that gold will come in handy,” Becky laughs finally, and, this time, Charlotte lifts her chin to look at her. “But, for now… I’d rather be generous with it.”

“You? Retiring?” it’s not necessarily a jab as much as it is genuinely interested, but, like before, she can’t help the hidden yet noticeable bite that presents itself.

“I thought the same thing when first playing with the idea,” the answer is honest with a sad smile, the woman turned to Charlotte. “I’d like to.”

The random fact mindlessly floats in the air for a minute or two, their energy beginning to crash further as the drinks take effect and the fire’s warmth cradles them, until Sasha interrupts it.

“Is that why you spend your nights in motels like these when you _could_ aim for… luxury?”

“Well,” Becky nods, adjusting in her seat, “yeah, but also… in my experience, sometimes luxury sacrifices culture. Look at those patterns around the motel, like the tiles and siding,” her finger gestures to where they’re staying for the night, everyone turning to see what she means. “It may be broken down, might look a little sketchy, but, to me, that tells a story. The most broken-down people and places hold some of the most touching history and stories to tell, even if they don’t know it.”

The sentiment strikes a chord within Charlotte, admiring her words without necessarily showing it. She chooses to erase that admiration by reaching to finish off the whiskey in her cup, grateful that she hadn’t revealed how disgusted she was throughout the now-warm beverage. Grateful that it gave her an escape, too ━ oddly enough.

“I have a question about tomorrow,” Bayley’s voice is heard for the first time in what feels like forever, Becky looking over the dying fire to give her the green light. “If this is… _illegal,_ should we be expecting the authorities?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Becky watches both Charlotte and Sasha frown severely. Now, there’s no way she can redirect the fact that she hasn’t even given Bayley the rundown on the carnage she’s tried to avoid for the past however-many months, years, beyond, nor the rundown on who or what they very well may run into on the island. All in the name of keeping someone safe, Becky reminds herself.

But is that really much better?

“Not if everything goes to plan,” Becky reassures her, and that’s the truth. “Everything _will_ go to plan.”

She doesn’t give anyone enough time to debate or argue it, nor to dismiss her claim or prove it to be false ━ not before she leans forward in her chair and says, “It’s getting late. We should probably rest up for the morning. We’re heading out around nine, and Speedy’s up first to show us what she’s got.”

The brunette in mention snickers before groaning in something resembling embarrassment, not used to being evaluated. While she gets up and stretches, she responds with a yawned “Let’s hope I remember how to drive a boat” that Becky shakes her head at.

“That’s not funny, lass,” the redhead gets out, albeit she’s laughing as she stands.

“Right,” Sasha pushes herself upward with an exhale, Charlotte following suit. “Guess we’ll see you in the morning, then.”

With a curt nod from the Irish woman, her three teammates begin to walk back to the motel against the grainy sand, though the blonde is begrudgingly stopped in her tracks when Becky calls, “Hey, Charlotte.”

At a standstill, the historian’s chin is tilting toward the sky with a deep breath falling from her lips. The sound causes Sasha to turn with hesitation to leave them alone, but soon nods to herself before continuing to walk back to the motel with Bayley.

Becky approaches the tall blonde once they’re alone, originally appearing to be at a loss for words before she’s able to force out the lackluster appraisal, “I, uh, wanted to thank you for agreeing to help me━”

 _“━‘chase’_ one of the largest pirate bounties in history?”

Her interruption strikes Becky again, the redhead nodding and timidly muttering, “That’s one way of putting it.”

Although Charlotte detects the taken aback nature in her response, she doesn’t give Becky the benefit of the doubt. If she does, she may get lost in those saddened, apologetic brown eyes. If she does, she may fall harder than she did the first time. But she can’t handle that, and, against her deep-rooted wishes to patch things up, the best defense — at this point — is offense.

“Make no mistake, Becky, I came with intent to collect that piece of history you promised me,” she starts, voice monotonous. “The one you _can’t_ put in your pocket and exchange for millions, no matter if you want to or not,” it’s telling that she’s putting her walls back up, maybe even more so than they were when Becky traveled to Oslo ━ and it _stings._ “After this is over━”

“You want nothing to do with me,” Becky finishes for her, lips in a tiny pout but features rigid, like she knows what she signed up for but it doesn’t make the pill any easier to swallow. “I heard you the first time, Your Majesty,” it comes out with her own attitude, her own defenses. “But fine, a deal’s a deal.”

“Good,” Charlotte says, blinking. “Goodnight, then.”

Without another word, the blonde walks away, leaving Becky alone on the chilly, desolate beach in total darkness. Her heart is heavy in her chest, crestfallen and insecure as she walks back toward the now-glowing embers with short flames appearing every now and again, the treasure hunter ready to pack up and head in for the night. It isn’t until she’s looking into that almost-dead fire that Becky’s emotions begin to spill out completely, and she’s compelled to sit back down with a pulsing in her palms, that burning sensation that sinks into your skin with you’re faced with disappointment, rejection, heartbreak, everything terrible.

Like everything terrible that was strewn throughout the look she recently earned from Charlotte when the historian realized how Becky hasn’t let Bayley in on everything. The look, again, of severe disappointment, like back then when she had devastated the blonde.

She wants to stop doing this. She wants to stop pretending that she’s some fast-acting vigilante that can get through situations without a mere scratch, burn, or managing to harm someone. She wants things to be less tense between her and Charlotte, too, even though she’s the one who’s brought this new age of mistrust upon them. It’s hurt her psyche more than she’d like to admit. Sure, she can own up to her feelings for Charlotte all day, every day, but… even back then…

_Fuck._

She had such an immaculate hold on Becky, her claws so pointed, so deep, that disappointment had rattled within her bones for weeks ━ even months. Even after Paige returned from visiting her family, the dark-haired woman could tell, specifically in one instance after Becky’s venture with Charlotte yet before the start of the next with her normal partner.

They’d been sitting in a pub between towns, a hole-in-the-wall venue, the two resting at the counter with cheap beer being sipped on before they’d sleep and head out for a new country in the morning. Of course, Becky’s head was everywhere _but_ in that pub, and Paige could tell.

_“What’s got Becky Lynch in such a tizzy?” her question is a result of the redhead snapping a time or two, acting passive regarding various ideas for tomorrow. “You found the treasure before Marlowe did,” Paige takes a sip of beer, nudging the other woman but getting no response. “Obviously the urn didn’t survive, per se, but the accomplishment is what you ride on. ‘Finders keepers,’ that sort of thing.”_

_Silence._

_“You don’t look like someone who just accomplished something so massive.”_

_“That’s because I feel like I lost more than I gained,” is all that comes, being honest for the first time in a while, and Paige feels taken aback but doesn’t let it show._

_“As in…?”_

_Becky’s own sincerity catches herself off-guard, not used to the feeling of revealing her feelings to anyone. It may be easier with Paige since they’ve been around each other long enough — they’ve shared everything with each other — but that doesn’t mean Becky would_ rather _be an open book with her. If it was up to the Irish woman, she’d go about the rest of her days stuck in her own head, paying no mind to anyone, or confessing to what she’s thinking._

_“Does this have something to do with that Charlotte girl?” Paige cautiously asks, getting no response, but there’s a partial twitch in Becky’s posture that answers on her behalf. “Jeez, I leave for two weeks and someone else runs you ragged.”_

_Her joke goes over Becky’s head, the redhead taking another swig of her drink before setting it down on the counter. With her entertainment lost, Paige nods to herself and rubs her lips together, opting to be serious because she can tell there’s something seriously biting at her best friend._

_“You did the right thing, sweetheart,” her voice is quiet, tender. “You were in trouble and you knew it was shady territory for a newbie. You got her to safety. You protected her,” she reinforces the words, knowing it’s what Becky needs to hear, and they finally earn her attention ━ not to say the other woman agrees._

_“You didn’t see the look on her face, Paige,” Becky counters, tone raspy and forehead creased. “Whether I protected her or not, I… God,” she breathes out, then closes her mouth. “I need to sleep,” the empty bottle is pushed further away from her, throwing some money onto the counter of the pub. “Onto the next, right?” her jaw shifts after she says it, pushing in her stool and glancing at Paige for a brief second. “See you bright and early.”_

Unfortunately, that ache in her chest never left, and she doesn’t see that changing anytime soon. As far as Becky is concerned, it’s only going to hurt more as she continues to work with Charlotte by her side, and maybe that’s even the reason why she hadn’t contacted the blonde sooner ━ not even to apologize. Because, in retrospect, she was protecting herself, just like Charlotte stays trying to, and it’s not every day that Becky willingly subjects herself to that kind of emotional pain. Even if she believes she deserves it, that doesn’t mean she indulges in it. At the end of the day, she tries escaping it. She tries avoiding it, just like everyone else.

Just like every other human.

She begins to nod, sealing her lips and sucking in a sharp inhale while sadly pushing herself to her feet.

Whether or not she believes it’ll be difficult to focus on their trip, she has to make a genuine effort to, and she has to synthesize a brave face for the rest of them. She has to make it through. She has to finish this.

 _“‘For God and For Liberty,’”_ she recites, tugging Paige’s leather jacket tighter around her torso as she turns away from the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all still picking up on Becky's "selfless yet selfish" personality. It gets more and more twisted as we get deeper into it, but so far I'd say she's a very complex person. So is Charlotte, hence her brash attitude on the outside whereas, inside, she's sulking.
> 
> For those of you who have played Uncharted: I’m sure you’ve noticed (or not?) that I’ve altered some of the names of locations, and it’s for the sole reason that I wanted to keep things a tad more realistic (which is humorous since the game primarily is NOT), so the town and bay are the legitimate places that most resemble what we see in-game. Not that anyone was necessarily questioning it, but just a fun fact, I suppose. I’ve also changed events, too, but that’s for a variety of reasons.
> 
> Anyone feeling a little curious about anything else within the chapter? I'm sure you are.
> 
> Anyway, again, I'll be updating kind of sporadically, but you'll see me in due time. Thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone's doing well! 
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments on the story, especially those who review after each chapter. You've made me smile a lot, even when I'm otherwise stressed over my first drafts being not good enough (and, in turn, I think the final drafts aren't up to snuff, either). I know, I know; first drafts are always iffy, but I'm too much of a perfectionists to stomach it. Ah, well, thank you so much.

SUN., 10:43 A.M.

* * *

The sleek, metallic and unimpaired texture of an expensive compass is pressed between the pad of her thumb and the curve of her pointer finger, held in place with her determined gaze fixated on its glass.

Inside, the red arm of the compass quivers with the boat rocking its contents, two motors vibrating each of the four bodies within its bed as Becky tries her hardest to focus on the instrument held between her fingers and not on the open sea ready to swallow the vessel whole. Luckily, she’s been able to track their path as much as possible with little to no “road signs” around them, only being provided judgment by a smaller, beachy island they passed approximately thirty minutes prior. Otherwise, the majority of her knowledge has been based on the compass held in her palm ━ now being clasped shut with a click and a deep breath exiting her nostrils ━ and additionally the sun’s bright and warm path above them. Besides, it’s not like they’ve had to take any detours, or swirl around anything blocking their straight path to their destined island, but there’s always that lingering, overwhelming _“what if?”_ surrounding a lengthy boat ride. Especially when that boat ride begins at a foreign dock, and _uber_ especially when that destined island is that of what many dub to be a grandiose delusion.

Becky rubs her lips together, tasting salt water once her tongue brushes against them.

It’s been over an hour and a half since they set off on this journey. It’s been over an hour and a half since they last stood on dry, unmoving land with the knowledge that, if they wanted, they could change their mind and walk away without a care in the world. Even Becky could’ve. And, truthfully, she’d be the first to admit that she hardly wanted to roll out of bed this morning, still lacking a good night’s sleep. For hours throughout the night, all she managed to do was stare at the ceiling with cloudy mirages of memories creating a film around her window of vision, scattered pictures of her and Paige smiling while standing on the peaks of cliffs, and others of Charlotte blushing at their intense eye contact after a long day of hiking. Everything she holds near and dear to her heart spilled out on the ceiling above her, like she was lounging in a vacant movie theater and simply reliving her best mental acquisitions, or admiring a colorful, personal painting.

But, as always, her happiness is never allowed to last longer than a certain limit, and that window of vision gradually turned greyscale with those smiles morphing into frowns. The laughs, the giggles, and the sweet-nothings all turning into disappointment, then cries and gunshots.

Those dreaded gunshots.

She sat up in bed when they began rattling around within her mind, like the bullet was painlessly ━ in a physical sense ━ drilled through her temple until it pinged around within the confines of her skull, like a silver bell in an empty paint can. It grew louder, too, so emphasized to the point of shaking her head at the far-off fantasy of getting a decent amount of sleep, only to take a shower around four-thirty in the morning.

Little does she know that Charlotte’s night wasn’t much better, despite being able to obtain a modest amount of rest until she woke at six and remained under the covers until seven-thirty, wishing she could sneak out and catch a flight back to Oslo with no note, no warning, no heads-up, no nothing. Payback, maybe. A cowardly act, probably. But… a human instinct: running away in the face of fear, avoidance, extreme uncertainty resulting in surrender.

The blonde had reached for a nearby, spare pillow and covered her face as she was pressed against the paper-thin mattress, muffling her own deep breaths and curling her knuckles around its fabric. She was conflicted, that’s no secret, and that conflict still emanates from her body as she sits in the back corner of the boat, opposite of the treasure hunter who periodically glances in her direction with the world’s smallest frown.

Actually, she’s not even sure if Becky means to wear a frown on her face, or if it’s just part of their relationship nowadays ━ particularly following their end-of-the-night conversation from before bed. Still, when Charlotte _does_ side-eye the Irish woman, she constantly notes the faint purple surrounding her eyes, as if it’s darkening each day they spend together. In fact, Charlotte begins to entirely wonder if it’s her fault, recalling how faint the color was when Becky visited her in Oslo compared to yesterday, and now it’s even bolder compared to _that._

She first noticed the blatant exhaustion this morning when the four girls met up at the dock. Their expressions all varied, shaded in nervousness yet minor excitement when it came to Bayley, then forced courage on Becky’s part. “Forced” being the operative word, Charlotte thinks; she could see through the redhead’s glass smile, being similar to the demeanor she coddled herself with back at the airport yesterday, like she’s trying to convince both them and herself that she’s alright. Like she’s trying to convince everyone that the trip will go smoothly when the larger percentage knows that there’s a bigger chance it _won’t_ ━ save Bayley who still hasn’t grasped onto the gist of its danger.

_“Everyone ready?” Becky’s question is simple but so, so loaded; she wonders about both their physical and mental preparation, hoping everyone has what they need and nothing they don’t, while also paying caution to where their minds are._

_It’s evident in the way she asks it, too, with a sheepish grin being shown to each of them before she looks over her shoulder in the boat’s direction. Her shaky motion isn’t missed by Charlotte who assesses the woman’s posture, appearing brittle and resembling a shell of her normal confidence. It’s as if she’s already in the process of shattering, despairingly using the cheapest tape to hold together forming cracks in a stone wall. It’s as if she’s wearing a suit made of thin ice ━ the kind that forms on a cold morning atop the smallest puddles at the end of your driveway, the kind that you step on so it crunches beneath the toe of your boot with the littlest of pressure._

_It’s as if she’s the most nervous one of them all, but not due to the impending trip. No, this is deeper, and it’s like this is her last-ditch attempt at clearing her name, or holding herself together. For the first time in years, Charlotte watches the simplest motion ━ the treasure hunter turning away with her knuckles balled into fists around the straps of her backpack ━ expose Becky for being equally as vulnerable. It’s chilling, she decides._

_While Becky faces away, everyone else exchanges odd looks, sharing shrugs and unspoken words, simply checking on each other ━ which, in hindsight, is better than nothing. It shows a silent type of teamwork, and that’s more than enough to make it through the obstacles they’ll face later._

_“Um, I’ve got…” the treasure hunter’s bag is loosened from her shoulder once she faces them again, unzipping it to scan its contents, “the note, my journal, a flashlight, matches, binoculars, a pot and cups, some vegetable broth, coffee grounds, granola bars…”_

_A pistol. Ammunition._

_Her eyes dart in Bayley’s direction, the brunette currently zoned out with her eyes locked on the eggshell-colored fishing boat that rubs against the side of the dock, a clunking sound coming in its own rhythm with the crashing waves._

_“I have what I need,” Sasha states with a flat tone. “I’m ready.”_

_“Bayley?” Becky nods in her direction, flinging the question to her next._

_“Yeah, I think I’m ready,” when she’s refocused, it comes with a gentle smile, voice quiet but lathered in anticipation for the trip._

_“You_ think _you’re ready?” the mercenary quirks an eyebrow, lightly teasing._

_The brunette puffs out her cheeks in a deep breath, psyching herself up and saying, “I’m ready,” without a remnant of apprehension._

_Lastly, Becky’s eyes flicker to the blonde who’s been silent since they came together at the edge of the old, wooden dock, visibly paying attention to the conversation at hand but also stuck in her own world. Likely as a defense mechanism against the impending adrenaline, or something to cradle herself with, but also possibly in desperation to keep away from tasting that adrenaline with a faux positivity. With a faux ecstacy, or something that tricks her into believing that everything will be okay if she simply indulges in its tricky clutches._

_“Charlotte?” Becky finally manages to push the woman’s name out of her sore throat, albeit hardly, and it’s nearly a whisper. “Are you ready?”_

_A deep breath comes, then a pause, and, eventually, her answer._

_“As I’ll ever be.”_

So, with a lingering reluctance, one by one, they climbed into the small boat no longer than twenty-five feet, and set out for sea just after nine in the morning. Bayley sits in its open-backed wheelhouse cabin, paying close attention to the boat’s speed and how it operates. Becky had rented it for them, and gave Bayley a quick rundown on the boat’s quirks ━ its touchy throttle, and its oddly vibrating, dual, back motors ━ before the brunette’s intellect proved to be much stronger than they could’ve imagined. Much stronger than they could’ve _hoped,_ as well. So far, she’s handled it with ease, the ride as smooth as possible aside from when they reach a velocity of over fifty and then the boat’s underside will hit a wave, glide overhead with little to no bumps as if they’re floating on air, before falling back down and repeating the process.

Sasha stands in the middle of the boat’s open platform, arms crossed, facing forward, and somehow managing to stay upright considering the punctual and abrupt, heavy thumps and varying speed. She hardly even sways, and Charlotte has watched Becky’s face contort in confusion multiple times at how the mercenary is still standing while the rest of them have been forced to sit as a result of the ship’s sporadic motion. This time, the historian would be inclined to agree; her power stance _is_ impressive, but, since she’s known Sasha for a while, she’s aware that the woman is nothing if not determined to portray herself as immovable while otherwise being equally as humane as the rest.

On the other hand, whether immovable or not, you’d think that everyone would want to rest their legs in preparation for the massive amount of climbing that’s in their near future, so, to voice her own thoughts and Becky’s, and to shatter the silence that’s _already_ bitten them throughout the morning, the blonde speaks up.

“Why are you standing?” her voice is raspy when it’s heard for the first time virtually all morning, and it surprises Becky who turns to see Charlotte staring at the back of Sasha’s head.

The redhead’s mouth closes, formerly not noticing that it dropped open a crack once hearing the historian talk for the first time during this ride. Sasha doesn’t even have to look over her shoulder to know she’s the one being spoken to, keeping her arms tightened across her chest with her chin raised, hair blowing in the wind as mist trickles along her exposed skin.

“It’s good exercise.”

Charlotte quirks an eyebrow in acceptance to the answer, though it doesn’t fight the faintly incredulous snicker that’s barely heard over the motors’ hum between herself and Becky. She chooses not to extend the conversation, letting it fester until it’s completely gone in the wind, but Becky picks it up for her.

 _“How_ are you standing?”

Bayley glances in the rearview mirror like she’s in one of the race cars she’s driven, paying attention to the conversation without contributing. She refocuses after another second, and Sasha takes a breath, exhaling and saying, “Balance and determination.”

At this, an unnoticeable smirk pulls one corner of Bayley’s mouth upward, purposely speeding up before abruptly slowing down so Sasha nearly falls forward with a grunt and her arm reaching for the cabin’s ceiling.

“Watch it,” the words are hissed out for the most part, but Bayley can tell it’s lighthearted once she looks into the rearview mirror again to see Sasha’s eyes nervously evade hers within an instant.

Similar to the previous day, Becky makes note of the way Sasha evidently crumbles when faced by Bayley, no matter how hardened the purple-haired woman’s persona naturally is.

Thinking back, this isn’t the first instance today where Sasha has shown herself to be stumped by Bayley’s airy attitude ━ even just by her overall presence. The first case came in the form of the brunette hurriedly approaching the dock where the others waited, Bayley getting out a gasped _“I’m here, I’m here”_ as if she thought they’d really leave without her ━ despite being the only one who knows how to steer a boat.

She was wearing an old, blue-dyed graphic t-shirt with bleach stains patterning it, khaki pants tight against her legs, and a grey, plaid flannel tied around her waist while a backwards snapback kept her hair neatly in place. Again: her style presented her personality without Bayley having to speak a word, and Sasha pursed her lips when eyeing the girl up and down. She didn’t say anything, though Becky watched her mouth open partly before closing, then opening again, and finally sealing her lips shut in pretend that she never had anything to say, in the first place. Ultimately, the mercenary ended up turning around, forcing her attention upon something at the far end of the beach while the warm, orange sun continued to rise over them.

Still, with the brunette standing there with a childlike grin on her face and a quiet humming coming from her throat while double-checking her backpack, Becky mused at how different ━ how laid-back, borderline vacation-y ━ she looked compared to the rest of them:

Becky, herself, wears a heather-grey v-neck with a black tactical vest hanging over her shoulders, a matching elbow-pad wrapping her right arm, along with her comfiest camouflage pants and her brown belt sporting a gun holster. It’s something she’d been cautious about when fastening to her belt earlier this morning, not wanting Bayley to notice but also paying mind to being safe rather than sorry. So far, the brunette hasn’t asked, and Becky has kept it tucked close to her side with the gun secured in her backpack. To finish off her ensemble, she made sure to fix the single braid in her hair before she left her motel room, making it tighter than usual with the strand being tucked behind her ear when she was finished.

Other than herself, Charlotte’s style is something that Becky remembers quite well ━ a little _too_ well, she pokes fun at herself: she opted to go with a simple, white, ribbed tank-top and blue skinny jeans with a good amount of stretch for climbing, the boots that the Irish woman had gifted to her completing the outfit with her classic, signature look, hair down and flowing against her shoulders.

When the blonde changed and faced herself in the mirror, a sense of nostalgia all but collided with her body, as if her past self had jumped out of her reflection and jolted her backwards until they were suddenly one in the same. It felt like her old skin, thicker and meaner with a thirst for danger, and, make no mistake, the smile that slid across her mouth was a mixture of acknowledgement yet fear. She doesn’t want to be that person again, and she doesn’t want that fear to go away. Because, in fear, she finds solace, security and comfort, and that’s the only way she’ll stop herself from pushing her wellbeing aside in order to smooth over that hole of unfulfillment that Becky shed light on.

The fourth member of their group appears the most intense, as per usual, with an onyx-black tank-top tucked into faded, olive cargo pants, her belt being attached by a plastic clip to a thick, seatbelt-like band that wraps around her thigh, a Beretta 93R secured in its holster for anyone to catch a glimpse of. Just something every bodyguard needs, right?

Becky wishes to sigh, her internal conflict nipping at her calloused bones with every chance it gets. She’s been trying to distract herself from the overwhelming amount of friction within the walls of her mind, trying to cram it away just enough to make it through this trip without cracking. But, quite frankly, there’s just too much at stake, too much at risk to simply ignore, despite that being yet another reason as to why she _should_ keep her cool.

God, what ever happened to the mindset of holding herself together for the sake of everyone else? What happened to being the courageous one? The confident one? The _optimistic_ one? What ever happened to her that drive, that passion, that determination?

And, by all means, those internal concepts still there, existing deep within the treasure hunter ━ and, by all means, they’ll never go away ━ but, now, it seems as though they’re stagnant, like they’ve lost their firepower. For whatever reason, she’s more nervous than anything for this venture, and she’s beyond positive that it shows ━ especially confirmed whenever Charlotte gives her wondering yet mindful eyes, subtly digging at Becky’s thoughts without outright asking.

She’s always had a knack for that. She’s always had a knack for picking up on the unspoken, or unshared. Becky meant it when she alluded to Charlotte always being one step ahead of everyone when it comes to their mental state, their thoughts and ideas, their woes and their worries. Their baggage.

Charlotte always knows.

Brown eyes look in the direction of blonde hair blowing in the wind, every now and then Charlotte having to run her fingers through it in order to make it fall properly. Becky wears a weak smile, slowly morphing into an odd face as she bites her inner cheek and squints one eye in deliberation.

“Why don’t we play a game as we wait?” her features are cheeky and hopeful at the suggestion, also sounding as if she won’t accept the request being turned down ━ predominantly out of wanting to distract herself.

“Like what?” Sasha chuckles without turning around, but Becky sees her shoulders shrug. _“‘I Spy’?”_

Her sarcastic retort earns a mocking face from the fiery redhead, using her best effort to pull a smile from Charlotte but coming up short when the historian isn’t looking her direction, instead watching the water turn into mist as it’s dashed by the boat. Becky puffs out her cheeks with a breath.

“I was thinking more along the lines of… why don’t you all tell me a fact about yourselves?” before anyone can shake their head at the idea, Becky jumps to continue. “I’ll go first.”

A curt, humming noise comes from her throat during her short spurt of thought, not taking too much time before she finds something for them to chew on.

“Something about me…” her jaw shifts as her mouth remains open. “I have one tattoo, and it’s on my lower, left back. A lipstick print.”

It piques the others’ interest, but only Bayley hums in attentiveness whereas Sasha squints at the information and Charlotte gives it an eye-roll.

How cliché, she thinks.

“Got it when I lost a bet,” Becky explains, fiddling with her nail and leaving Paige’s name out of the confession.

“You didn’t want to bet money?” the mercenary asks, snickering to herself while wearing a smirk.

“Eh, that’s for children,” she crosses her arms and leans against the right corner of the boat’s end, keeping herself sturdy in place. “You bet money and it’s over in a flash. We were going for blood, my friend and I. It was our norm.”

“What was the bet over?” Bayley throws the inquisition over her shoulder, Becky pursing her lips.

“I bet she couldn’t beat me in an arm-wrestling competition,” it’s gruffy and annoyed, like the memory is still fresh in her mind. “We were drunk, I was wobbly, and I thought she’d forget, the next morning.”

“And she didn’t?”

“Oh, she _would have,_ but a bum tattoo artist was sitting a _convenient_ table away,” she grumps. “Eavesdropping bastard.”

This time, Charlotte raises her eyebrows in pointed amusement, however she’s still turned away and refusing to show Becky any type of acknowledgement. That piece of information isn’t worth her captivation, and she refuses to make it seem like it is, forcing the wonderance from her mind about if the redhead had the tattoo before they’d gone on their first adventure together, about if she’d seen it without giving it the time of day, if she’d ignored another woman’s lips inked onto soft skin, or━

_Stop._

Charlotte rubs her eye socket with her fingers, carefully pulling her hand away before they hit another wave.

“When I was younger, like… _pfft,”_ Bayley makes a weird sound with her lips, lost in thought, “elementary school to junior high… _maybe_ high school… my friends nicknamed me ‘Hugger.’”

“Care to elaborate on why?” it gets a snort from Becky, eyebrow quirked with a confused grin on her face.

Bayley laughs, “Nothing special, really. I was big on hugging people, sometimes for no reason, other times for every reason. My family was always big on affection, so it was a… childhood habit. It’s what I picked up on from an early age.”

Sasha hides the smile that comes to her face, bowing her head and pulling her crossed arms tighter against her chest while she balances herself against the boat’s rocking.

“Gotta change your name from Speedy to Softy, don’t we?” the treasure hunter beams, this time the mercenary humming in agreement with a smug grin tugging at her mouth.

The brunette peers into the rearview mirror, briefly catching a glimpse of Sasha’s tilted head until the woman is forcing her lips sealed and turning away ━ just like she’s done on multiple occasions, only reeling Bayley in further. It’s turned into a certain cat and mouse game, but it’s the least bit rancid; Sasha may be a jerk to Becky for a reason unknown or at least unprovided, and she may be borderline silent toward Charlotte, but obviously the mercenary’s words from last night remain true: Bayley hasn’t done anything to get on Sasha’s bad side. She doesn’t want to, either. Not when she’s been able to pull a smile out of someone who’s been otherwise indifferent to the events, not when she’s been able to feel accomplished by bringing some light into what seems like a dark world.

And, in actuality, that’s part of the reason why Bayley enjoys being so gung-ho about everything, so fresh-minded and silly. She knows that woes and worries tend to riddle others’ thoughts and actions, keeping them in the lane with which they’re familiar, but she wishes to be the person who pushes the boundaries. The person who shows everyone that it’s okay to feel, to hope, to strive for better outcomes, to smile, to be happy, to be _free._

It’s something she’s prided herself on for as long as she can remember, and it’s something she’ll continue to do until given a reason not to.

“I failed History in my freshman and sophomore years,” Charlotte takes her turn within the “game,” this bit of intel getting raised eyebrows from Becky.

“You _what?”_ it’s choked out but amazed that their group’s historian isn’t naturally gifted in her craft.

“The only blemishes on my transcript,” the blonde nods, more so to herself, with hardly an expression on her face. “It was mostly American History that stumped me. Surprisingly not my forte,” her eyes bore through the boat’s decking where Sasha stands, unblinking.

“I don’t think that’s _anyone’s_ forte,” Sasha drones without turning around. “It’s bullshit.”

“How’d you recover, then?” Becky flings the question to Charlotte, the blonde hardly turning her head to look at her. “How’d you go from historical failure to successor?” there’s a smile in her words, but the blonde sighs through her nose.

“I studied,” the answer is simple, quiet above the hum of the motors.

And that’s that, Becky thinks while shifting her jaw and staring ahead, though she doesn’t have much time to sulk in Charlotte’s lack of reception ━ or avid, imposed avoidance of it ━ when Sasha states her lackluster fact.

“I’m afraid of spiders.”

Bayley turns just barely with a “what the fuck?” type of smile on her face, shaken from her face when she blinks hard to refocus on the open sea in front of them. Becky, meanwhile, has her mouth hanging open with a failure to exactly acknowledge Sasha’s confession, being so minor and inapplicable to a “get to know me” conversation that she’s perplexed on how to retort.

“That’s…” she starts, tip-toeing with acute humor, “not really a mind-blowing fact.”

“You never said it had to be mind-blowing,” for the first time since they began the trip, Sasha turns around with smug features, outsmarting the redhead. “Specify, next time, Straight Fire.”

A giant inhale fills Becky’s lungs as she hangs her head, Sasha turning back around as the treasure hunter mutters, “Right,” with obvious defeat.

“Why do they call you ‘Straight Fire,’ anyway?”

Becky raises her chin to see Bayley peering into the mirror so they’re able to lock eyes, the question lacking the brunette’s usual timidity but keeping a firm grasp on her desire to inquire about anything and everything. Clearly, their first encounter was only the start of Bayley’s game of a million questions ━ or four-hundred-plus-million questions. But, quite frankly, Becky wouldn’t have it any other way; it’s nice having someone who enjoys conversation as much as she does ━ someone who’s willing to keep topics moving or shifting without puttering along or making things awkward. If no one else will hold up a friendly nature throughout the trip, perhaps Bayley and Becky can be their own, conversive duo.

She begins to nod, more so to herself, as her raspy voice answers, “It’s a cooler nickname than ‘Loose Canon.’”

There’s not much emotion in what she says, and maybe even a sad smile somehow manages to smash through Becky’s strong will to keep it at bay, but her lack of comment on the subject doesn’t deter Bayley from questioning the reasoning further.

“‘Loose Canon’?”

“Yeah,” this time, she chuckles, albeit it’s a shade wounded. “In the past, I’ve had a hard time filtering through my emotions when it comes to caring for people. I get a bit determined trying to protect them,” her voice is dry, and she clears her throat before finishing with a whisper. “Sometimes for the worse.”

Eyes that reflect the ocean’s color move to watch Becky’s jaw clench as she turns away to stare at the water, and Charlotte feels her heart ache, an invisible fist clutching at her chest at how run-down Becky’s posture appears now that she’s undoubtedly being sucked into her head.

During their last expedition together, Charlotte watched Becky’s motions, self-directed pep talks, and panic become intensified at the first sight of danger ━ before the shooting, and before the instance that left them completely shattered, there in the water with shrapnel falling like snowflakes. She became fierce and unstoppable in terms of focusing on the task at hand, and Charlotte, herself, even had to snap the woman out of her red-filtered trance so they could make it through a single night.

Becky had gone into overdrive before that, trying to single-handedly disarm dozens of traps laid by an earlier civilization just so Charlotte didn’t have to subject herself to that. In the end, the treasure hunter made one misstep, one mistake by the heel of her boot shifting on dusty ground and onto a hidden pressure pad, before a giant, stone gavel previously hidden in the ceiling was ready to swing down toward her in the motion of a pendulum.

Luckily, Charlotte had only been feet away, and she managed to tackle the Irish woman who froze in place, right before shoving her back to her feet with panicked hands, and the two had to run quickly along a cracking floor, ready to be dropped into an abyss with spikes below.

That didn’t make Becky’s frantic nature any less volatile from the initial trap she nearly walked them into, angrily stepping away from the collapsed floor, the now-ruined temple, and running her hands through her hair before crouching on the patchy grass and trying to breathe with her fingers tightened against her skull.

_“Becks…” Charlotte’s voice is soft, kneeling beside her partner once her breath is caught. “Becky?”_

_She shakes her head, afraid of her anger being misdirected onto the blonde who just saved both of their lives._

_“Do you want to rest?” again, she attempts to pull something from the treasure hunter, delicately placing shaking fingertips on her shoulder and dragging them down her back._

_Suddenly, it’s like the tenderness sparks something within the other woman; Becky roughly gets up, takes another breath, and clenches her jaw heavily while turning back to see where they exited, the archway they ran under now in shambles with the left pillar toppled over and digging into its twin. Dust flows out like smoke, puffs upon puffs with stones dropping from its sides, and Becky tastes sand on her tongue whenever she opens her mouth a crack. She frowns, then vaguely gestures toward the exit as if her arm is too weighted to lift fully._

_“I thought I had it,” is all she says, words practically caught in her throat, watery and small like a sad child’s, and Charlotte turns back to see where Becky’s eyes are fixated._

_“It’s okay that you didn’t, though.”_

_“No, it’s not,” she disagrees with a firm seriousness, forehead creased in perplexion. “We could’ve died. I━I could’ve killed you, Charlie, I…”_

_“But you didn’t.”_

_Her jaw tightens again, so much that she believes her teeth will pop due to the strain. Anything that makes the building tears hold back, though; she can’t let herself cry right now, not when they’re in the middle of nowhere and not when Charlotte is staring at her like that. She can’t let her own fragility get the best of her. Not in this situation, or any other situation._

_Becky licks her chapped lips and shakes her head._

_“Just… next time, please listen when I say to stand back.”_

_She begins to walk away without paying an ounce of attention to the way the blonde reacts to the request ━ nay, the instruction ━ but Charlotte doesn’t let her get further than a lone step when she gingerly reaches for her wrist, a pout curving her mouth._

_“And then what? If I had listened,_ you _would’ve been the one dead, and I would’ve been trapped in there,” her argument holds multiple points ━ along with that constant need-to-care attitude mixed with gentility ━ but Becky shakes her head at each and every one._

_Soon, the grasp on Becky’s hand loosens, and it falls to her side. Without a word or initiative to understand where Charlotte is coming from ━ with what resembles a refusal to do so ━ Becky begins to drag her feet along the ground, not straying from harshly kicking a piece of loose rock off the side of the cliff while Charlotte remains standing in the same spot. Without the sound of crunching footsteps behind her, Becky comes to a standstill and bows her head, shoulders slumped and self-loathing._

_“We have a lot of ground to cover,” the redhead notifies with a quietness and a fallen confidence, throat still feeling like its walls are being suctioned, and her back is still turned. “We should stay focused.”_

It stung more than Charlotte would admit, back then. Hell, even now, maybe she’d try to pretend that she was indifferent to Becky’s lack of empathy or dual perspective. All this time, it’s been what Becky wants, what Becky needs, how Becky survives, how she does things or accomplishes everything ━ even if the redhead believes she’s being selfless about it all. She never let Charlotte mutually care the way she did, and she never let her inside. Sure, Becky has a whole, separate past that may or may not determine what she does or doesn’t share, or even who she confides in, but Charlotte never once gave her a reason to not believe she can be trusted.

She presumes that they’re from similar mindsets, though, since she nowadays can’t bring herself to accept Becky’s amends, or her soft eyes, or tender heart, or sweet words and advances ━ particularly those silent glances that weigh so heavily, Charlotte has to turn away each time. It’s different now. They’re both pieced together in all the wrong places while _pretending_ that everything is fine, and, by all means, they both appear made out of porcelain to the point of everyone being able to tell. Charlotte can tell, Becky can tell, Sasha can tell, Bayley can tell.

They all know that lies surround them, that makeshift attitudes and toothpick bridges keep them held together by cheap threads. But they all look at this in the same light: business. Charlotte, herself, is guilty of that. Either way, that doesn’t mean, for one second, that she’s ignoring the obvious: both she and Becky are broken, individually and collectively, and it’ll be a while before they’re able to understand it, or empathize with one another.

No matter how much they wish they wanted to right now ━ admittedly, on Charlotte’s side of things, now that this trip is begrudgingly bringing up past memories and feelings that she thought she’d suppressed enough to remain buried in the sand.

_Shit._

Movement out of the corner of her eye breaks up her thoughts, watching Becky carefully walk toward where Bayley sits in the captain’s seat. They both stare out the window, Becky’s hand now grasping the back of the stubby, taupe, leather chair, though the brunette leans over and asks, “What are we even looking for?”

“Doubt we’ll see a ‘welcome’ sign,” Sasha muses, entertaining herself with the snarky interjection.

Becky ignores it, head turning this way and that while her eyes scan the watery horizon.

“Anything man-made,” it’s strained, like she’s not paying much attention. “Well,” a small laugh trips from her mouth, “pirate-made, I should say.”

The mercenary rolls her eyes, but the reaction is disrupted when she catches a vague glimpse of a large, green island peaking through a distanced blanket of fog.

Becky begins to smile, slowly but surely, with her cheeks tightening and eyes lighting up like a child on Christmas morning. She hastily reaches for her bag, unzipping its major compartment to pull out a pair of small, black binoculars that are pressed against her eye sockets within the next second.

The island is lined by a yellow shore, sand appearing soft, as if clay, until it leads up to a thin patch of gravel, then greenery like a thick forest. Suddenly, the words she spoke when talking to Sasha back in Springfield appear to be truer than she intended; the island looks tropical, palm trees scattered around the vegetation’s edging, and she can see orange and crimson birds circling above it. Other species of plants and trees overhang the beach every now and then, casting scattered shadows along its dusty sand, and water thumps against larger, pointed boulders that come into view as they grow closer.

“Watch the rocks, Softy,” Becky says with the woman’s new nickname through absentmindedness, although she doesn’t peel her eyes away from the island.

“Got it.”

There are also miniature mounds of sand that just barely scrape the surface of the water, protruding out from the sea and threatening to capsize the boat if they float too close. By this time, their speed has slowed nearly to a stop, and Bayley waits for Becky to give her orders to approach further as they bob against the swaying waves.

“There,” the treasure hunter points once she takes the object away from her eyes, handing it to Bayley who squints into it and drags her vision along the shore until she spots what she’s seeking. “See that tower?”

In the center of the island’s right side with a break of water dividing the mass of land in half, a stubby, cobblestone tower sits behind skinny trees and dense shrubbery. Half of it is crumbled, a large hole on its further side towards the top of it with wooden boards jutting out for a small platform. It’s certainly manmade, despite the likelihood of natural events breaking it down until it’s hardly noticeable, and it’s the only thing visible on the island that holds a vague, pirate trademark.

“Okay,” Bayley exhales, handing the binoculars to Becky so they’re slid back into her bag while the boat’s throttle is slowly handled, moving forward.

“Shall I say it?” without warning, the redhead turns around to Sasha who furrows her eyebrows and Charlotte whose knuckles are pressed to her mouth in thought, both womens’ eyes now focused on Becky.

Judging by the careless glint in a childish, brown gaze, Charlotte rightfully presumes that Becky’s humane wonderance and trip down memory lane has been cut short, subsided until slammed away in her mind’s personal treasure chest, and her mental focus is now reset on what they’re about to come into contact with.

Now, the old Becky has returned, and Charlotte isn’t sure how to react, but it doesn’t matter. Soon, they’ll be setting foot on dry land, and, soon, she’ll be helping Becky find what she’d sought her out for. Soon, they’ll be reliving what happened years ago, and, soon, Charlotte will have to make a choice if that’s who she wishes to be, who she wishes to allow to thrive once more.

Still, with no response coming, Becky keeps on the dopey smile as she turns back around, raising her chin a bit and giving her crew two, cliché words:

“Land, ho.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're just about at the island. Honestly, it wouldn't have taken this long if I didn't keep having to break chapters apart repeatedly. I recently had to break what would've been the eighth chapter into eight and nine, so there's that. I suppose I nowadays write more internal monologues than I used to, but I'm a thought-inclined person apparently.
> 
> Anywho, I've been waiting to include some softer(-ish) Charlynch, and I hope it sheds a small light on how they operate when they're not as hurt by each other. In fact, Charlotte is someone who is unbelievably soft when she allows it, and we've so far only seen her holding herself back for the sake of being upset with Becky (not to say she doesn't have a right to that). On the other side of things, Becky is very... vulnerable. She has a SUPER complex backstory, even beyond Paige, and we'll eventually read about it as things fall into place with why she is the way that she is.
> 
> Otherwise, there are some Baysha things going on, and they're deeper than just the obvious "Sasha has a crush." In fact, maybe it's not even a crush right now. I can't spoil it, but there's a reason why Sasha is so straight-forwardly intimidated (if I can use that word ???) by how different Bayley is. It's a trope I hold very near and dear to my heart. 
> 
> Sorry for the run-on words in both the chapter and this author's note. I know sometimes thoughts can become a bit much, but we'll finally get a taste of more action in the next chapter and following that. Those who are familiar with the game, I hope you can visualize what I write; it's certainly been a challenge writing such heavy action, but I think I'm getting the hang of it. With that being said, it takes a lot longer to write those chapters than normal, so bear with me (as I always say, whoopsies).
> 
> Thank you again! OH, and P.S.: for those who haven't seen yet, if you go on my Tumblr ("wwe-charlie") and either shoot me an ask for it/go to find one of my "just an update" posts, I've included two Spotify playlists for the story! One is upbeat, a mix of every genre imaginable, whereas the other is slower, more acoustic or instrumental with some heartfelt songs. They're nice, if I do say so, myself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! I've returned bearing lone gift (A.K.A. this chapter).
> 
> It's pretty description-heavy since it's yet another introduction chapter (so is the next, somewhat, until we're finally in the bed of the storyline we'll work on), but I truly hope it suffices when it comes to visuals. Again, I've never done anything close to this action-packed, but I'm working my bum off trying to hit every sense imaginable. And their thoughts. Lots of those thoughts.
> 
> Go ahead and read.

SUN., 11:16 A.M.

* * *

If they weren’t aware that this is a pirate-established island, they’d believe the mass of land to be that of a weekend getaway, a vacation of sorts, or something that greets them happily with opened arms and a kind aura. Somewhere you look forward to attending with your family, like a summer trip you’ve gone on every year since you were a child. A catalyst for sweet memories.

Although it’s only been a brief two minutes since they stepped foot on soft, powdery sand with the sun kissing their exposed skin in comfort, they’ve already felt their chests swell with a sentimental emotion that none of them exactly planned for. The air smells oddly foreign, untouched or untainted by pollution and smog whenever they fill their lungs with deep breaths. There’s even a gentle breeze that filters past the shore and fills the air with the sea’s essence, but it’s not musky, nor is it mucky or unwanted. It’s like a hug from someone familiar, someone loved and meaningful, and long gone is the notion of being in the middle of nowhere with no phone signal, no way of contacting anyone from the mainland. Here, they feel welcomed, like they’ve stumbled upon a vacant piece of home that they didn’t know existed until recently ━ or until now, as their boots find shelter in the clay-like sand.

Within the two minutes they’ve been on the island, they’ve all taken a pause to gather themselves from the ride, shrugging off the nauseas seafaring and little by little focusing on what’s set before their very eyes. Quite frankly, what’s before them is quite astounding, and they all know it. Becky even witnessed a short-lived smile curve Sasha’s mouth ━ not to mention the sparkle that appeared in Charlotte’s eyes as she soaked it all up, lips parted in awe. Bayley has been a combination of the two, walking in a compact circle and nearly twirling with a foolish grin on her face. Same with Becky, whose detail-devoted gaze makes note of each and every stone, leaf, grain of sand, rock formation, and that pirate tower that stares at them from only fifty yards away, perched atop three slabs of rock mimicking porch stairs for a giant.

Nearby, their boat is warmly tucked into the shore’s edge, firmly secured so it won’t drift away while the group ventures along the smaller fraction of the island, and also close enough to the tower so they could catch it if it ever _did_ wander off.

With the initial round of astoundment wearing off, Becky seals her lips and nods while facing away from the other women, then slowly spins on her heel to face them, though her focus is immediately set on dropping her backpack from her shoulders. A mindless “Right, then” comes forward, hand reached into a smaller compartment within her satchel as she hums to herself.

Sasha’s about to question what she’s doing ━ why she’s delaying their inevitable day of walking, climbing, jumping, whatever else ━ but the words are lost as Becky pulls out a pair of black working gloves with padded palms, handing them to the mercenary.

“Here,” intense eyes don’t look in Sasha’s direction, merely placing the protective mitts in her palm before distributing two more pairs to their teammates with the same lack of personal attention. “They’ll protect your palms from scrapes and your nails from splittin’ if you misstep while climbing,” comes the to-the-point explanation, soon tugging her own gloves onto her hands until they’re secure. “They have grips, too.”

For a moment, with Becky’s obvious brush-over regarding their swirling questions, the three women continue to stare at the redhead as if they’re waiting for something different, or further, like they’re caught off-guard or riddled by the gesture. There’s something about her whole disregard for their wandering eyes that holds their attention, Sasha and Charlotte sharing a pair of odd expressions while Bayley shrugs it off. After all, this is her first time accompanying Becky on a trip, plus she has little to no information on the Irish woman’s past, so it’s hard to inquire about something you’re not sure of, in the first place.

Nonetheless, none of them question it, anyway. So, when Becky says, “Let’s get to it,” they opt to follow without a word or extended, befuddled demeanor, and Charlotte watches Becky reach toward her hip in order to secure her hook and grapple to the brown belt holding up her iconic camouflage pants.

Just like old times, she internally repeats the idea that’s become its own mantra. Whether or not that mantra is a comforting thing or more destructive is yet to be seen, only noticing it by the sour taste it brings to her mouth until it morphs into the pang of something bittersweet.

Their feet take them across the abbreviated stretch of beach with a subtle crunching beneath their boots, Becky tying the sound behind her to confirmation that she’s being followed stride for stride. Just as the shore comes to a halt, as they pass a line of stones that transition the ground into lush green, so ends the warmth that the beach provided them, and, suddenly, a cool breeze comes through the air. With large boulders on each side of them, it creates a tunnel-esque feeling with the wind-made chill trapped between deep-brown, cracked rock. On instant, the coolness notifies Becky of the thin layer of sweat resting upon her exposed skin, primarily lingering against her forearms and the back of her neck.

Pushing forward, she brushes off the fleeting ripple of goosebumps to inflict upon her skin, focusing on the task at hand once they’re face to face with the first of those giant stairs, each one angled differently, like poorly stacked dominoes, with bumps along the edges.

“Watch your step,” the instruction is flung over her shoulder, all while planting her left leg into the ground and using it to force her body up onto the cold, stone slab dusted with misplaced sand.

A series of quiet grunts follow as her teammates endure the obstacle one by one, taking it easy and slowly, with great care, as they continue to get a feel for things and manage to fight against the island’s structure. Becky is lost in her own mind as they work behind her, only stopping in her tracks in order for them to brush off their new gloves already dirtied by dried mud and sand.

Regardless, despite those stairs being a collective, stubby and boring obstacle, they’ve still passed it with flying colors ━ like a video game tutorial designed to see how your basic skills fare in a legitimately testing environment. Another trial run, she supposes. And, really, it’s been so far, so good, but her eyes then partly roll in a self-directed irritation about her old ideas of optimism. Reminder: it never works out for her, and it’s a far-off idea that this time will be any different. Even if she doesn’t verbally spread that positivity with a dumb smile on her face, the universe is still tuned into what she thinks, muses, harps on, hopes for, and everything that remains between her ears. The universe is always listening, and it’ll be no surprise when things go to shit.

There. No more optimism.

She sighs, but forces a smile onto her face when Sasha is approaching with mud-free gloves and her face settled into her normal, workplace, “take no shit” attitude. Becky looks over the other woman’s shoulder, waiting for Bayley and Charlotte without rushing the two. If she’s going to subject them to this type of environment, she’s going to allow them as much time as necessary to keep themselves in the spirit of hunting.

Three birds soar above them, catching Becky’s attention as she lifts her chin upward to see their red wings fluttering until they’re atop the tower with chirping and singing being echoed against the large boulders’ walls. Previously, she hadn’t noticed the tower’s true size with disregard to how they’re now much closer to it, and she notes its stone walls being rounded and smooth. Toward its top half, every now and again, those rounded and smooth walls are blemished, cracks disrupting its surface like natural, sharp veins or unkempt wires. As for its aforementioned size, Becky muses that it’ll certainly be a task to climb, but, fortunately, the wooden platform jutting out from its top cavity appears stable enough, and there’s plenty of area to hook her grapple onto.

Out of her peripherals, she sees Bayley and Charlotte now standing next to Sasha, previously unaware that they’d been assessing her bemusement directed at the tower that almost leans over where they stand, its likeness resembling a lighthouse placed on an edging of massive rocks that you’re not allowed to go near as a child.

She gives them a curt grin, then twists her body so they can walk ten more feet, only to be faced with a second round of stone slabs tucked into a mossy, green floor.

Again, the four women sturdily climb the rocks, taking them one at a time with grunts and contorted expressions until they’re standing firmly atop the final stair. Here, their eyes bask in the sight of the opposite bay to where their boat is tucked into the sand, and the sun peeks out from behind a single cloud to cascade a ray of warmth along the area once more. Becky has to gingerly hold her hand against her forehead, as if a makeshift awning that shields her eyes from the sun’s throttling, white light as she tries to scope out where the sea meets the sky.

Sasha clears her throat from behind where Becky stands, the treasure hunter turning away from the beautiful overlook and giving the mercenary a single, solid nod while passing her and taking a sharp left where there’s an indent and slope embedded into the higher tier of rock.

At the top of that slope, the scene they’re greeted with is the least bit welcoming, and the total opposite of the beautiful view they recently paused to pay tribute to. At the top of that slope, they’re faced with a pair of skeletons, bones fully clean, stripped of all flesh, all critters, and tanned by the outside elements. But, much to Bayley’s dismay, the two forgotten bodies of the past are ignored by the rest of her team. They’re passed with little to no acknowledgment, little to no cringe or even flinch, as Becky has seen enough of them in her day whereas Sasha and Charlotte understand that it comes with the territory ━ _unfortunately._

The brunette’s hesitation is the only attention those skeletons are given, eyes burning into the two, poor souls with their bones partly tucked into the dirt below them as one’s jawbone sits three inches away from where it should be. She shudders at the images that flash through her mind like an atomic bomb’s aftermath, lips turned downward into a frown while her eyebrows furrow. Although Becky’s stories from last night reassure her that these were merely pirates who lost their way, who lost the rest of their crew or those who used to stick by their side when things got rough, all happening decades ago, the fact that none of the other women held a single reaction is unnerving. No one batted an eyelash, no one spoke a word, no one froze in place, or questioned it, or shared a glance. No one cared.

And that’s the freakiest part about it. Not the fact that she just passed a pair of _skeletons_ like it’s an everyday sighting. Not the fact that they walked past two rib cages that used to cradle hearts, two skulls that harbored brains and carried the concept of life. No, the freakiest part is that no one cared, and this is clearly “normal” to them.

She swallows hard, her semi-concerned eyes keeping zoned out while beginning to walk with minimal tripping, attention so dashed that it’s only re-captivated once the dirt ground she’s shuffling along turns into cobblestone. At this, her eyes blink away their dryness and refocus, noticing that they’re now following the spiral of a crumbling staircase and brushing their shoulders against a wall of natural rock, and up ahead she hears Becky flatly hum to something unknown. Unknown, at least, until Bayley’s eyes are able to peer above the rock’s main platform where she notices a rickety bridge connecting this rock to one parallel.

The word “bridge” being used loosely, as it’s constructed of multiple ropes on its sides and a dozen two-by-fours that resemble the scrapwood pulled from your grandfather’s workshop or spare shed. Loose fibers stick out from the ropes, as well, with dangling threads and stray knots keeping nothing yet _everything_ together, at the same time. A place or two, there’s a board missing as it leaves a giant gap in a handful of places, and others look like they’ll snap in half if given more than the pressure of a baseball-sized rock. Not to mention, the coup de grâce of its unfortunate appearance: the lack of handrails ━ or even skinny ropes so they can hold themselves upright. Realistically, there’s only open air on each side, which means it’s time for the first test of balance.

How inviting, they think, but Becky tries to downplay it.

“Best get used to it,” the treasure hunter says with her voice uppity, briefly turning to them before casually crossing it, like she’s passing over a dirt path sided by flowers ━ like she’s _not_ balancing herself above twelve feet of distance to the ground. “This won’t be the last we cross.”

It’s not to say that anyone’s shown a single spot of apprehension thus far, but the Irish woman feels the need to comment as they go along ━ especially in case anyone’s hiding their worries. On her end of things, it’s been a mere fifteen minutes and she’s already becoming swallowed by unbridled silence, the only noises cutting into its tension being that of wildlife hidden in their surroundings, or leaves sounding like rustling tissue paper when a larger breeze wiggles the vegetation. Otherwise, ironically enough, the silence is deafening ━ almost more so than the previous night when they sat at dinner, or the sporadic quietude that periodically shook their bonfire “bonding session.” It’s even more nail-biting when remembering that they’re alone on an island together, forced to cooperate and communicate in order to accomplish what they’d set out to do so nothing goes wrong.

As far as Becky is concerned, her useless, spoken tidbits are all unnoticed conversation-starters, begging for one of the others to pick up on what she’s doing. It seems that even Bayley has come up short in the retort department, and Becky watches the brunette’s face appear whitened, vacant of expression while waiting for her turn to cross the bridge.

Meanwhile, in response to the treasure hunter’s most recent remark, Sasha raises her eyebrows before peering downward against her better judgement. Regret follows, and the cowardly part of her wonders if she should request that Bayley or Charlotte go first, but she bites her tongue and braces herself.

She’s never been a big fan of heights, or the “thrill” that people ━ somehow, someway ━ get from them. Admittedly, she actively avoids confronting heights or anything relative, not wanting to feel her heart skip as it tries to escape her chest, or sense that pinch in her throat while her eyes zoom in and out of the ground’s view, blurring until her vision is glazed over. She hates that her mind, on sight, begins to wonder and calculate how incredible the impact would be if she were to fall, and she hates that she can see through the cracks of the bridge, all the way down to the hard ground, as she puts the toe of her boot on the first board.

But Sasha wouldn’t go far enough to say it’s a fear she has. She doesn’t hold the phobia of heights. "Acrophobia," it’s termed. No, she definitely does _not━_

_Crack._

Although her heart jumps into her throat and her motions still, she doesn’t let her fright outwardly show, putting on a brave, passive facade while the boards creak with her following, two steps. Internally, she panics while wondering if the bridge is bound to snap at any given second ━ if they’re daring her to take one, accidental misstep that ends with her crashing to the ground.

But, ahead of her, Becky doesn’t look worried. She simply… _waits,_ blinking normally without a drop of emotion cracking through her bold features. Behind her, she imagines that the others express the same lack of heightened tension, or they’re merely watching how she braves the swaying of the bridge while highlighting scattered notes for their own task of making it across. She’s their test subject.

No, scratch that; she’s their bodyguard.

Rolling her eyes, Sasha pushes herself to take that final step without letting another line of adrenaline to creep into her veins, but an exhale is puffed out once she’s standing upon unshaking, unmenacing ground despite her knees wobbling. Distraction is the best cure, however, and she rather forcibly turns herself around in focus to watch the others without giving into the idea of questioning how she made it past the obstacle despite having nothing to hold onto. She stands next to Becky, waiting and swallowing her anxieties.

Much to Sasha’s dismay, both Bayley and Charlotte pass over the wonky bridge without making their potential fears known to the two who previously stood alone on the other piece of rock. She presumes that Bayley’s lack of apprehension is derived from exposure to outstanding obstacles upon a movie set, or driving at a high speed in a sports car, likely pretending that she’s not aware of the cushion-less ground below them. Charlotte, on the other hand, like Sasha, has done this before ━ though she’s never been one to reveal her innermost agitation; she’s never wanted to attract sympathy, or another’s attention, and the mercenary is sure that the notion is amplified when in Becky’s presence.

Regardless, now that they’re altogether once more, the treasure hunter gives them a curt nod before exaggeratedly waving her right arm toward the tower’s entrance as it’s now in view. Contrasting its other, smooth side without entrance, they now make out a paved archway in the shape of an octagon that’s been horizontally cut in half. Designs detail its sides, perfectly carved with precision and attribution to appear three-dimensional ━ not pictures, but simple shapes, just to give it an extra boldness. Within the tower, the floor is constructed of stone slabs, most uncracked by events but occasionally chips where they meet and start anew.

As they stand beside it, the inside’s coldness and dampness seep out from the archway, mimicking a fog that’s unseen as it brushes against their skin and causing each of the women to nearly shiver. Quite frankly, it’s not the most welcoming, but surely you shouldn’t expect such a concept when walking into a pirate-made domain, right?

Nevertheless, with caution and the sound of minimal grains of sand crunching beneath the toes of their boots once they step inside, they pass over its threshold and out of the warm sun, being greeted with a sudden, swampy scent and overall sensation.

They all look around, observing the tower and tilting their chins upward to view it from the inside. The lighthouse effect comes back into play, peering upward and admiring the tower’s emptiness aside from a filthy ladder made out of aged, chipped wood stuck against one side, and support beams jutting out from each wall in no particular pattern. There’s also a window up top, giving them a minor flicker of light within the dark cylinder, and, through the beams, they view the major hole that’s been crashed through its side, the exterior, wooden platform sitting on its rocky sill.

Becky moves around more than the rest of them, cautiously eyeing the floor as she tip-toes across in case of any stray traps. It’s just unlike the majority of pirates to build a tower like this ━ presumably to point in the direction of the next clue ━ without setting any hidden obstacle ready to derail the hunter. On the other hand, if this is just the beginning of Avery’s newfound trail, maybe he’s just getting warmed up.

Either way, it’s not good news for her team, and she grits her teeth while standing at the base of the crumbling ladder.

“This should be simple,” she decides to say with her jaw tightened in determination, though she also wishes to bite her tongue once that stupid positivity makes it into the brisk air. “I can handle it alone. Just sit tight.”

No one argues. No one even blinks. In fact, internally, Charlotte only feels her heart clench because it’s the same old Becky Lynch ━ the same old treasure hunter who put herself in plausible harm’s way simply to get things done while everyone else survives unscathed. But, sadly, she’s learned not to fight the redhead on things like this. After that past instance where the massive gavel nearly swung down and knocked them both through a solid, stone wall and off a cliff ━ the same instance where they also nearly fell through the dropping floor onto a bed of spikes ━ she’s learned that it’s easier to sit back and pray that Becky makes it through. Because, truly, the Irish woman had it right when she said you always have to pray, even if it’s to no one in particular, or even if it’s just to yourself. It’s easier to sit back and pray, and it’s easier to not fight.

Charlotte, herself, is never one to flat-out roll over for someone, or keep her tongue firmly between her teeth through a desire to not question what another person’s intentions are. She’s used to _revealing_ those intentions, those ulterior motives, those secrets ━ not for her own benefit but for the use of keeping things open and unstored. When it comes to accomplishing things by Becky’s side, opposing her usual, it’s a different story; admittedly, they both could be nicknamed “Hot Head.” Admittedly, Charlotte is equally as prone to argue, and, if she were to keep up with that persona, perhaps they’d never make it through a single venture without ending up pricked, broken-boned, maimed, or worse.

After all, despite Charlotte’s knowledge of history and everything attuned, she was still considered a newbie in this field, and she’d be right to lie cautious while Becky worked her magic against set traps and everything else the trail would call for.

Then again, that one time wasn’t solely a partnership to her, and maybe she wasn’t attempting to save Becky through a teammate’s actions, but because the fiery treasure hunter grew to mean something to her.

 _“Becks…”_ she remembers how softly she spoke to the other woman as she was hunched over, that being the first time Becky’s far-too-valuable nickname ever fell from her lips with such a sweetness that she dragged her tongue against her teeth, afterwards.

Charlotte would have the same reaction each time she used the nickname, in the future, no matter the scenario laid out in front of them, and, each time, it’d seem to strike something within the redhead. Each time, they’d grow closer, both figuratively and sometimes literally. Each time, they got deeper.

 _God,_ how she misses it.

Her attention is snapped back to reality when Becky is in the midst of climbing a ladder that crackles like last night’s bonfire with each step, each ounce of weight that’s put on each goddamn rung. Right hand, right foot, left hand, left foot. The motions are slow, sloth-like and extremely vigilant, as if even Becky knows that it’s slim chances she’ll successfully make it up the ladder without something shattering beneath her. There’s another creak that stills her motions completely, frozen in place with Becky swallowing hard, clenching her teeth, and forcing a shaky smile despite no one else being able to witness it and share in her misplaced dark humor.

At this point, seven feet of height separate her from the cold stone below, the three other women standing at the base of the ladder with occasional, silent praises that she didn’t request they follow ━ especially Sasha, who crosses her arms tightly and pretends she’s indifferent.

“And you do this often?”

Bayley must’ve sensed Becky’s dismay ━ hell, they all could ━ as the brunette decides to make light chit-chat for the first time in a while. Although her mind still focuses on that pair of skeletons only ten or so yards from where they stand now, she figures that it’s best not to harp on such a gruesome scene. She’s sure there will be more of them to come, unfortunately, seeing as though the basis of this adventure is set on the idea that Avery hid his treasure somewhere nearby, and the likelihood that he died with it, too, is pretty extravagant. Still, though she doesn’t want to accept it, this seemingly is part of the realm of treasure hunting; it’s not all fun and games, and she’s beginning to comprehend that notion as Becky puts her life on the line via such simple yet daunting tasks. For that reason, alone, she’s willing to suck it up and be an actual, solid part of the group.

Ultimately, her words are what break the Irish woman out of her entranced state, eyes finally blinking away from the passing rungs beneath her gloved hands ━ not to say her brain necessarily grasps onto the question, at first.

“Huh?” it’s echoed from high up, paying no attention to the inquiry while focusing on staying safe, but, once she’s finally standing atop a beam and balancing herself with arms out wide, she gets ahold of general reception. “Oh, yeah, this is just a normal day at the office.”

It gets a chuckle from Bayley, Becky taking three, deep breaths and keeping steady with her arms spread, fists balled, and left foot in front of her right on the skinny, stubby beam. She gathers herself, briefly peeking down to yell, “Heading back out.”

She can already feel the sun’s warmth on her skin as it streams through the intact, glass-free window, and she senses that unspoken welcomeness given by the island. Long gone are the slimy innards of the tower, her fingertips stroking the window’s subtle contours while stepping onto the window sill and standing upright, practically hugging the stone cut-out with that chilly, grainy texture seeping through her shirt as she keeps herself attached to the wall.

The other women now stand below, mutually basking in the sunlight that patterns against the dirt and patchy grass beneath their boots while also keeping a sharp eye on Becky who gingerly reaches for her metal hook and grapple attached to her belt.

Keeping her body steady, Becky unfastens its thick clasp, rubbing her tongue along her lips and tasting the faint remnants of mist from the ocean as they drove here. Next, she focuses, extending her neck as much as she can in order to view the different, potential angles where her grapple will be most inclined to stay secure, and, with a thought in mind, she begins to swing its rope in order to gain some speed. With precision and a muttered “Come on…” she takes three, valiant seconds before tossing it onto the top platform above, giving herself a cocky grin once she tugs on the rope to make sure it’s unmistakably secure enough to climb.

“And _that’s_ how you do it.”

Giving herself a mental shove, Becky steps off the stone window’s cut-out. Her hands firmly grasp the rope as it tightens, Becky allowing her muscles to relax with a numbing coolness filling the length of her fingers for a moment before pulling her full body weight up the rope with ease and flexing muscles to be admired ━ something that makes Sasha nod in good impression with pursed lips.

“Good core strength,” the mercenary comments from the ground, arms still crossed ━ this time loosely ━ while watching Becky climb with breathy grunts falling from her lips, and otherwise attention zoned in on the rope.

Next to her, Charlotte takes her bottom lip between her teeth, constantly amazed by how good of a climber Becky is. No matter how annoyed she can get with the treasure hunter, no matter how much she wishes the redhead would allow her to help, she’ll never deny that the Irish woman is one hell of a jumper, runner, climber ━ like a tiny, determined spider monkey. Those skills had saved them multiple times throughout the duration of their first venture together, even if Becky, herself, was the one to set off multiple traps, and she’s positive that they’ll come in handy for this one ━ judging by the fact that the woman is already scaling the wall of a tower and it’s only been a good fifteen minutes or so.

Still, Charlotte would be lying if she claimed Becky’s tendency to put her life on the line by climbing high in the air with little to no padding beneath them didn’t put her on edge, and, once she hears the thick, menacing crack of the wooden platform ready to give out when it begins to slant, she turns away as dirt and small debris rain down on them like ashes from a fire.

Above them, Becky steadies herself with wide eyes and an internal round of endless _no_ ’s, holding onto the makeshift entrance in the stone wall and keeping still, steady, until the platform stops sagging downward, then she carefully slides her foot onto an uncollapsing part of the deck. Once everything stops ━ once the debris stops falling, the dirt, the tiny pebbles ━ she exhales just as much as the others do, and a small laugh exits her throat, whispering, “Not today, my friend,” to both herself and the loose boards.

“What next?” knowing everything has settled but seeing Becky yet to move further, Sasha yells up to where she stands, the redhead turning her body so she’s facing an even-darker, round room with little to nothing on the walls.

Little to nothing aside from a hoola-hoop-sized medallion sporting a golden arrow.

_Bingo._

The mercenary’s question is left unanswered, much to her teammates’ puzzlement once Becky’s body is fully hidden by the shadow of the tower’s roof, the treasure hunter now walking further along a dirty, stone floor. There are more, occasional cracks creating sporadic stripes in its aesthetic, mostly blemishing its southern side and even leading up its wall. Based on the look of it, Becky would be right to presume that, in the near future, there will be a second blow through the wall, and maybe the entire roof will collapse, at that point.

Her three teammates pay attention to her movements, listening to the sound of crunching pebbles beneath her boots as they roll against the floor whenever she unintentionally kicks them, though it fades as Becky approaches the circular mark on the opposite wall. They wait, hoping nothing happens where they can’t reach her in time, but they also understand they should trust in her judgment. Whether or not Becky is nicknamed “Straight Fire” in order to cover up for “Loose Canon,” she’s made a living on this type of adrenaline ━ these risks, these high-pressure situations ━ and her being hidden away from sight should be the least of their worries.

Charlotte raises her chin a bit, taking in a deep breath through her nostrils as Sasha side-eyes her. Bayley doesn’t move.

Inside the tower, Becky has a silent interaction with the lone arrow, nothing surrounding it, and all other points of the wall unmarked. It looks like a single point of chevron fabric, or the outline of a mountain. A single, pointed peak, golden and beveled as it protrudes from the surrounding stone. Carefully, Becky drags her fingers along it with an emotionless face, feeling its chilly yet smooth finish just barely come through the padding of her gloves, and the tip of her tongue is bitten with curiosity before a determined look flashes through her eyes.

Putting two hands against the giant symbol, palms cupping its raised shape on each slant’s center, she uses her strength to push it forward until it slides further into the stone with the sound of bricks sliding against each other being heard. It’s followed by a clunking noise, then a few more, like a mechanism somewhere within the tower ━ deep below the ground ━ is switching gears, and it’s only supported once the other women are reacting to the dirt and grass quaking beneath their feet.

They look around in acute panic, but not enough to make it known by each other. Their toes vibrate against the interior of their boots, that sense of anxiety coursing through their veins until Becky is standing on the wooden platform above them.

“What did you do?”

With Sasha’s new question in the air, the treasure hunter wastes no time in repelling down using her grapple, a subtle zipping sound coming with the action as her gloves create a warm friction against its fibers. Once she’s four feet away from the ground, she carefully jumps as her knees bend with one touching the dirt, hands placed firmly to the surface as if she’s greeting the solid Earth.

“Pressed a big button,” coming through a slight groan as she rises to her feet, the answer is simple, and the sentence hardly exits her mouth before she’s passing them. “Let’s get back to the boat. We have some arrows to follow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I know this chapter kind of drops off, but, again, it's because I continue to split chapters that were originally destined to be one lengthy update. Since this chapter and the next were supposed to be one whole thing, I'll likely see you sooner. I don't want to break the action too much. 
> 
> But, yeah, it's been fun kind of warming up everything. Charlotte is still getting a feel for her resurfaced feelings, Becky is trying to stay brave in the face of everything, then Sasha and Bayley are getting used to what the trip is bound to be like. It's only a matter of time before things start to crumble (figuratively and literally)...
> 
> As always, hope this lived up to the delay. I truly HATE not being able to update every day, but I'm not someone who likes to update a chapter right after it's written because then I panic once I lose that drive to write and I'm suddenly drowning in lack of confidence. SO, we'll stay cautious about it. But I must admit that I've had more fun writing chapter nine and ten, so there's something to look forward to. 
> 
> Thank you, friends.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a random note: I hope everything is well with everyone!

SUN., 11:27 A.M.

* * *

With a series of reversed jumps down along the stone slabs, taking a right and avoiding that ghastly bridge they tread approximately ten minutes prior, all four women clamor into the speedy, fishing boat. Bayley resumes her position behind its controls, easily igniting the motor with a little help from Becky who has to manually start the left engine when it initially refuses to. As opposed to the ride heading to the island when she leaned against the back corner, Charlotte takes comfort upon the chair next to Bayley, and Sasha paces along the small boat deck when instructed by the redhead to search for the next arrow.

“It should be around here,” Becky thinks aloud while bending down to check on the defiant motor a final time, smacking its side. “The first arrow was pointing to the shore.”

The Irish woman breathes out with a quiet, dramatic “Finally” once both motors are humming in unison, Bayley giving her a thumbs up as Becky’s heavy boots take her across the deck on the opposite side of Sasha ━ but not for too long before the mercenary chimes, “There.”

The word invites each woman to turn in the direction which she’s pointing, especially Becky who all but runs to that side of the deck and tightens her grip around the boat’s edging while straightening her arms and leaning over the side. Their eyes land upon a similar, large medallion with identical, beveled and golden centers, this disk raised out of the sand as some of its grainy remnants continue to pour off the sides. Clearly, it wasn’t protruding from the ground earlier, as they would’ve noticed it, and additionally judging by its caked-with-mud appearance with the hints of water that drip down its face. Now, they’re on the right trail.

“It’s pointing south,” Becky looks at Bayley who peers over her shoulder and around one of the boat’s posts to check, doing it once, then twice, before finally reversing the motors and tactfully backing them out of the sand.

To herself, the brunette raises her eyebrows and absentmindedly claims, “Seems easy enough,” causing Charlotte to close her eyes with a slightly hissed exhale seeping out from between her teeth.

“Don’t… jinx it,” she mutters while staring away from Bayley on her side, more like a quiet prayer, and Becky glances at the source of the dull comment without mentioning it aloud.

Slowly, the boat turns away from the shore before they’re able to speed up a handful of ticks higher, the boat’s dual motors solidly revving behind them and propelling them in the direction of the ornate arrow. It’s only five seconds before they’re floating past the medallion sticking out the sand like a giant coaster on a random patch of shore, Becky and Sasha scanning the surrounding area for the next step of their trail ━ being spotted further out into the water, tucked between two boulders.

“Southeast,” comes the direction, Bayley following instruction without a word as Charlotte simply observes their movements, making a mental map of where they’re going and where Avery is taking them.

With their luck, it’s nowhere good, or a place that ups the ante as the first bit of island was relatively calm, undaunting and untesting. If there’s anything she’s learned throughout the brief stint of treasure hunting she has acclaimed, it’s that pirates truly attest to the idea of amplifying the concept of risk with each step. It’s a tactic used to weed out those who don’t deserve to be there, or to see who “proves worthy,” as Becky mentioned last night. Charlotte has to give it to Avery, though: this seems elaborate, even in the smallest sense, and his attention to detail is unsurpassed when it comes to previous sights and mappings she’s witnessed. Especially considering which time-frame his existence fell into, where civilizations were less prone to pay attention to the smaller aspects, normally heading straight for the bigger picture and cradling it with desperate hands.

Avery truly is… _something._

With precision, Bayley carefully maneuvers around the pair of boulders keeping the arrow held hostage, Sasha now leaning over the boat and feeling mist sprinkle against her features while Becky stands upright and makes sure she can see, exactly, where it’s pointing to. Still, Charlotte provides Bayley with a backup set of eyes when it comes to driving, deciding against fawning over their path as a third seafarer, knowing Becky is the best at scavenging and Sasha has her back for that task.

“Anything for the next, Pinky?” Becky asks with a hint of dismay, eyebrows furrowed as she tries to extend her neck to look over a stray boulder blocking her view of where they’re directed to next.

The mercenary doesn’t respond, squinting her eyes and using the the handle on the boat cabin’s back to perch herself atop the edging, giving her an advantage of about three more feet, height-wise.

“Hold steady, Softy,” comes Becky’s instruction when she sees Sasha balancing on the boat’s side, the redhead holding her hand level to the ground, flattened with fingers tightened together as if to incite caution.

Sasha continues to look overhead, searching everywhere from right next to the boat, all the way to the sea’s edge where it meets the beginning of the partly cloudy sky. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even hum, or blink, or drawl with _um_ ’s or _hm_ ’s. Becky looks around confusingly, as well, tapping her nails against the back motor as she shifts on her feet every now and again. The boat bobs against the water, at a standstill aside from the waves that rock them both high and low, thicker wafts of breeze shooting straight toward the boat and causing it to sway.

Suddenly, and rather hinted with dark comedy, Sasha gives herself and Avery a tight, annoyed smirk.

“There we go,” her words gain Becky’s attention, the Irish woman enthusiastically whipping her head toward Sasha, then to where the mercenary’s free hand is pointing.

Peering through the water and taking a bit of time to do so with waves constantly disrupting and blurring her vision via thicker depth, Becky uncovers a glistening, gold arrow hidden in the sand beneath sea-level. It’s pushed into the ground, large bubbles occasionally escaping its surrounding crevices perhaps due to its exit from the sand when the mechanism unlocked, and Becky cackles.

“No wonder we couldn’t find it,” a smirk that mirrors Sasha’s curves Becky’s lips. “Clever bastard, ain’t he?”

“It’s pointing to that cave over there,” Sasha’s arm drifts over to where it’s beckoning for them to follow, though her gaze doesn’t vacate from the arrow, at first, making sure to get it right.

 _“Ha,_ yeah, it is,” Becky sounds excited about the discovery, opposing Charlotte who feels apprehensive about it; maybe she isn’t fearful of the cave, itself, but what it entails as they’re now back on their rightful path, and it’s only a matter of time before they’re back on land, ready to stumble into something more menacing, to be subjected to something more strenuous.

She braces herself, re-fastening her backpack onto her shoulders since she’d taken it off once they got settled into the boat. Meanwhile, Sasha shuffles up the deck until she’s standing between Bayley and Charlotte, staying upright with her hands grasping onto the backs of their taupe chairs. As they begin to move, Becky does the same and enters the front cabin, crouching slightly so she can stare through the front windshield as much as possible.

The boat creeps forward as they view the cave’s entrance, large stacks of dark rock on each side as they’re spotted with sporadic garments of thick moss and weeds. A single palm tree lies above the entrance, though it’s on its last leg and is practically hanging from three, thick roots as it leans over the sea. With another gust of strong wind, it’ll be done for and fallen below the water, sinking to the bottom as stray coconuts lose their loose fibers.

By now, they’re on the back end of the island, nearly between the two hardly connected pieces of land with the dividing stream wrapping around one side of the cave, on their left. On the face of it, this cave resembles an olden-age garage, something natural yet made to be useful and seemingly intentional. Definitely for Avery’s benefit.

As they approach the opening and get their first glimpse of its bold, interior shadows, they’re greeted with a clammy, heat-box feeling that engulfs their limbs one by one until they’re fully warmed with their clothes sticking to their skin on contact. The cave smells like a wet dog, like a massive, furry creature has been taking refuge in the watered-down cavern, nested and cozy while its stench wards off anything that tries to trespass.

The group of hunters isn’t deterred, though Sasha makes a face at the newfound odor that refuses to be filtered by the fresh scent of sea just outside the cave. No one else winces or pays much mind to it, Bayley zoned in on where she’s going with the minimal amount of light they have as it’s provided by a smaller exit on the opposite side of the cave, just diagonal from the rocky entrance which they floated through. The exit is covered in greenery, already giving them a taste of what they’re bound to encounter in lush vegetation, weeds, more moss, trees, and shrubbery. Compared to the cave, it’s beautiful, though that’s not to say the cave, itself, doesn’t have its own appeal.

There’s a giant, smoothed-out pillar of rock set in the middle of the massive cave domed above them, acting like a natural support system for the cavern that’s the size of a high school gymnasium. It’s so large, the motors’ sound bounces between the walls and reverberates through the rocks, themselves, a quiet splashing against the stony outcrop on the far side being amplified by its acoustics and mixing with the engines’ purring.

Becky observes her surroundings, eyes narrowed partly and scanning the rocks’ contours, the places they can climb, and, obviously, the exit where natural green oozes out and over the single ledge. She calculates its height from the water as they float closer, soon noting that it’s too high to reach, even when standing atop the cabin of the boat. The treasure hunter makes a face at the turn in events, seeing no way of reaching the top of the ledge where they undoubtedly need to go. After all, it’s the only other way to pass into the cave.

Her mildly irritated expression morphs into that of a non-verbalized “Wait a second” once she begins to follow what appears to be another arch sticking out from the ceiling of the cave, curving along its height until it blends into the side of the centermost pillar like it’s a limb. She even notes whitened perforations in the stone, faded from lack of water pooling against it while the rest of the cave is soaked in moisture. Natural hand-holds, she thinks with squinted eyes and a subtle grin that doesn’t exactly show.

Their compact vessel moves with the water’s windy sways as Becky moves across the deck, getting their driver’s attention with a casual “Hey, Bayley” and the underlying notice of conclusion.

“Yeah?”

“Can you settle the boat against that side of the pillar?”

“Uh, sure,” it’s overly cautious but predominantly puzzled, Charlotte beside her being more quizzacle than the brunette.

Although the historian knows how Becky operates and to the lengths of which her mind ventures in order to finish tasks or avoid intimidating obstacles, some more obnoxious than detrimental, the glint of success that flickers within brown eyes always puts Charlotte on alert ━ especially because Becky very seldom lets anyone in on what she’s just figured out. This scenario is no different, and even Sasha watches Becky with a frown until all their eyes are staring up the height of the towering, center pillar, the boat now rubbing against the side of it without thrashing into the cold stone.

“May I ask what we’re doing?” the mercenary’s frown remains as she asks, though one eyebrow is quirked once Becky turns to her after having her chin previously tilted upward at the pillar.

“We are _climbing,”_ her smile is a shade pained, not out of fear that they’ll dismiss the choice, but at the overall energy that’s bound to be used by something that should be simple.

She curses Avery at the lack of steps up to the ledge from which the greenery leaks out. Of course he couldn’t have made it easy, her mindful tone both snarks but also thinks realistically; obviously she wishes he was more courteous with his levels of treasure hunt ━ mostly because she’s aware that this likely won’t scratch the surface of what they’ll face next ━ but, then again, if he had been, they might as well not be the first individuals to make it to this point.

The smile drops slowly, Becky rubbing her lips together while looking up at the pillar once more, then facing the other women who now wear their backpacks like earlier, faces full of hesitation but a hint of eagerness on Bayley’s side of things.

“It’s going to be…” there’s a pause, exhaling a shaky chuckle, “a _wee bit_ major for your first climb on the island, but the water’s deep enough, and, if you lose your grip or footin’, it’ll catch you.”

Charlotte raises her eyebrows at the diluted joke without the reaction being noticed by Becky ━ which, in itself, is odd considering that the redhead usually drops such silly comments in hopes of getting a rise out of who she’s speaking to. In fact, Becky spoke it so forced, so sudden and unconfident that the Irish woman entirely vacated the “conversation” by turning around and using the boat’s metal handrail to prop herself up onto its side frame, facing away from everyone.

The tall blonde frowns, but she keeps an eye on Becky. Sasha stands to her right, arms crossed and chin lifted with her jaw tightened in thought, all while Bayley fiddles with the grapple within the contents of her bag to make sure everything is set for the journey, not wanting to already have to delve into the boat’s spare compartment.

Becky lifts herself onto the roof of the cabin with a grunt, then puts her hands flat onto the surface so she can push herself back to her feet. Once standing, she looks down at the other women who wait around, two of them looking unamused whereas Bayley gives the treasure hunter her undivided attention. Nonetheless, she gives them a silent _“see what I did there?”_ shrug accompanied by a vague bow, a passive jab at their postures being so unimpressed.

As Bayley is the first to follow, the sound of falling pebbles and small splashes echoes through the cave, Becky climbing higher and higher, to the left, then to the right, starting horizontally on the archway just as Charlotte begins her upward journey. They follow the bulge of the pillar’s front side, carefully paying attention to its curves, and, soon, both Becky and Bayley are nearly at the centerpoint of the archway, hung high above the boat and at least twenty feet departed from the water.

Their legs dangle, merely swaying as Becky comes to a standstill and simply hangs limp with her glove-covered hands grasping onto two indents in the stone where rocks previously fell from. She turns her head toward Bayley who is approaching slowly, paying mind to where she puts her hands with extended arms mimicking Becky’s posture. Hanging there, arms and fingertips tingling, a daring smile stretches across Becky’s mouth, allowing herself to look down for five, whole seconds before swinging her legs slightly in amusement.

“Sometimes I get the urge to just let go and have some fun, you know? Dive into the waves,” a chuckle trails her statement while talking to Bayley who, after two seconds, is right beside her with a foot of space between them, the two hanging and smiling at each other.

Much to Becky’s surprise ━ and bit of impression ━ the brunette laughs along with her, ready to say something with her mouth wide open and eyes sparkling when Sasha, behind her, groans, “Will you two move a little faster? This isn’t playtime.”

Though Becky begins to climb sideways once more, she makes sure to throw an argument back at Sasha, retorting, “Any time’s playtime if you make it so,” while the mercenary grits her teeth before following Bayley, Charlotte doing the same to her while remaining silent and focused.

“Are you always this chatty on the job?” it’s delivered via an estranged grunt, and Becky swings her body to the ledge where her boots thump onto the ground, fingers pressed against the stone until her back is straightened and she’s standing in the newfound, filtering sunlight.

 _“‘Chatty’?”_ her claim is baffling to Becky; they’ve been silent for pretty much the entirety of this venture’s start. “I’ve hardly chatted at all, lass. Maybe you just work with boring people.”

Her statement is drown out when Bayley jumps onto the ground next to her, boots making the same, hollow sound once they’re smacked against the damp stone. Becky purses her lips and gives her a hum, but she returns her attention to Sasha almost immediately.

“Besides,” Becky raises her eyebrows, a shade taunting, “you’re the one who interrupted my conversation with Softy, here. I think you’ve been waiting for one of us to speak up.”

At the last moment, she jumps back right as Sasha intentionally swings her body toward the treasure hunter, Becky jolting away and pressing her tongue to her inner cheek as the mercenary forces out a dull “Ha,” followed by the sarcastic rebuttal, “right.”

Intense yet playful, brown eyes follow Sasha as she walks past Becky, intentionally bumping her shoulder with a small bit a force as the redhead clears her throat, then focuses her attention on the last member of their group. Her smile reappears, too, jokingly smug ━ a little much for the historian’s tastes.

“And what about you, Charlotte?” Becky nods the statement to the blonde whose boots finally touch the ground next to where she stands, Bayley now drifting over to where Sasha observes their fresh surroundings.

At first, Charlotte’s head is bowed as she steadies herself on the very edge of the slab of rock, but, once she lifts her chin so they’re face to face, her eyes are settled into an irritated half-glare with features stoic. It makes the light drain from Becky’s overall demeanor, the joking lost, the casual nature free from the small amount of space between them. In fact, the lack of distance between them is even intoxicating, on its own, and Becky partly gulps without it being seen.

Ultimately, she blames her next statement ━ her next, untactful comment dripping with misguided suggestions ━ on the nervousness that ensues when she’s so close to Charlotte that she can make out the alternating, blue-green color of her ocean eyes. She blames her stupidity on their proximity, and the memories that nip at her brain when she smells the faint remnants of Charlotte’s signature perfume that’d consumed their spaces on their last adventure. She blames it all on that leftover pining, and her lack of will to keep her tongue bitten between her teeth as it strives to bring them back to the lighthearted banter they shared in that tent, years ago.

That untactful comment comes with a smile, as well, which more likely than not doesn’t soften the blow, and right as she says it, she wishes she didn’t.

“Oh, come on. Have some fun. No tequila included.”

Whatever hint of desire to share in Becky’s toying personality evaporates from Charlotte’s appearance, giving her a tiny head shake in the least fraction of acknowledgment and simply passing the redhead who, instantly, slams her eyes shut as she stays standing in the same spot.

 _Shit,_ she thinks.

It’s not like she’s ever wished to sound so demeaning, and it’s not like those were her intentions. Hell, she even believes that Charlotte _knows_ she didn’t mean to make it come off in _that_ way, but it doesn’t exactly plead the Irish woman’s case when they’re far from friendly yet she’s trying to force them back into that type of connection. For all Becky knows, Charlotte wants nothing to do with her once this is over. Sure, the historian already made it clear that this is their last adventure together, but, since their conversation in Oslo, Becky has held firmly onto belief that Charlotte would still be willing to at least reconnect over something more average, less dangerous or risky. Becky even admits that she’d offer her own retirement on Charlotte’s behalf if the blonde asked her to do so. Anything, at this point. She’d trade anything.

She’d even go as far as to being honest when she says that her life has been stained and borderline empty since she fucked up with Charlotte, then hitting rock bottom when she lost Paige. Despite Paige being in her life a stretch longer than the historian, they both still meant the world to her in different ways. As far as Becky is concerned, they both _were_ her world ━ no matter how scary it is to know that Charlotte, though briefly in her life, played a vital role in how her focus switched when in regards to making decisions. After Charlotte left, it changed the way she looked at things. Becky held regrets. Guilt. Sadness. Hesitation. Real emotions. Not to say she hadn’t before, but, back then, she was able to brush them aside for the sake of getting the job done.

Now, all she does is feel those real emotions and sulk in them, even if she doesn’t let it show. Which, in hindsight, is probably another reason why her joking with Charlotte isn’t taken lightly. To Charlotte, the treasure hunter is nothing but selfish, exposing people’s weaknesses because the hunter, herself, doesn’t prove to have any. For once, Charlotte is wrong.

Maybe someday Becky will be able to prove that to her.

“Are you coming, or not?”

Sasha pokes her head back into the cave where Becky stands, the Irish woman getting out a stammered “Ehm, uh━yeah, sorry.”

The mercenary looks her up and down with a semi-knowing frown, like she’s noticed the twitch in Becky’s movements and her lost eyes, but she doesn’t give it much thought. Instead, she only nods to where Bayley and Charlotte wait, movements slow, both the navigator and historian silent but observing the fresh batch of nature, the greenery, the trees and the shrubbery, the occasional flowers tucked behind vines, and, up above, the sun’s warmth that’s now trying its hardest to peak out from behind thin clouds.

She feels like she’s exiting through an invisible curtain as she takes a short step onto the next tier of stone where the others stand, Becky being the next one to let everything soak in. On the surface, everything is colored with various greens and greys, some yellows, all plants and vegetation, notifying the women of untainted and unconstrained life. To even the most out-of-touch human beings, it’d be considered beautiful, and especially more so as four sets of eyes land upon some sort of entrance to a caved-in temple with stone pillars toppled and statues galore in moss and vines.

On sight, Becky’s face breaks into a dumbfounded smile, absolutely breathless and gradually lacking the most recent annoyance with herself and how she’s slipped further into bad graces with Charlotte. Once the blonde’s name flashes through her thoughts, on the other hand, it only reminds her that she’s standing next to the historian with their shoulders brushing. Cautiously, with little to no movement, she side-eyes Charlotte and studies the look on her face, paying attention to how the blonde exists in the presence of such beauty. Quite frankly, Charlotte appears equally as stunned with her mouth slightly hung open just as much as Bayley and Sasha’s, and their attention is stolen in sync by a group of birds that fly from the top of one of the statues, their colors red and gold to oppose the greens of the space.

A choked-up laugh barely trips out from parted lips, Becky amazed and near floored as she says, “Magnificent, isn’t it?” to anyone who’s listening ━ even to just herself.

As they shuffle toward the entrance of the temple, each of the four attempt to take in as much as they’re able to, hoping they don’t miss a single drop of such exquisite scenery, scent, or sound. Becky is the most focused, but she allows the others to revel in their imagination and the views; it’s not every day that you see something like this, and, considering the fact that this is the positive aspect of treasure hunting, she should let them take their sweet time. She owes them that much.

Her steps are deliberate but also thought-out, looking where she’s going as she’s at the foot of cracked stairs and toppled ruins, noting the main archway is entirely blocked and caved in from natural occurrences and, without a doubt, extreme erosion. The blockage is also moss-ridden and decorated with scattered webs, an orange-ish, copper tone brightening various water or slime pools, with dirt and smaller blocks of stone topping it off. There’s no way they’re getting through the main entrance, and Becky chews her inner cheek while turning right from where they came, then left to a smaller archway the width of a standard, household doorway, but as tall as a one-story home’s roof peak.

Similar to the main entrance, this one is also blocked, though it’s different; the smaller entrance is blocked by wooden boards and mounds of dirt, stones ranging in size as they rest on those boards, all blocking the majority of the beneath path but not the full extent of it. Actually, there are plenty of spaces to squeeze through with a little elbow grease and the lifting of a wooden board or two.

“Sasha, can you…?” she gives a mindless nod at the collapsed rows of wood without finishing the question, but the mercenary gets the gist, anyway.

Becky’s voice gets the attention of Bayley and Charlotte, as well, the two sharing a brief look before walking closer but making sure to stand far enough away, just in case something collapses more than it’s already settled. In the meantime, Becky and Sasha stand on either side of the boards, bending their knees and getting into a squatting position with their hands slid flat beneath the lowermost slice of wood. Each woman is aware that their motions have to be synchronized for the removal of this obstacle, having to be done in a single, unshaking lift in order to clear the gap where they’ll slink below and into a newer clearing on the other side. And, as far as they know, they only have one shot at this with a strong likelihood that one mistake in timing could break the archway entirely, or worse: one mistake in timing could cost them a limb.

They both breathe out at the same time, a sort of uncanny resemblance in mild distress as they make eye contact before Becky turns to the other two.

“Be ready to sneak under,” she instructs. “Move quickly, then stay back. It narrows on the other side, so there’s not enough room for you to stand shoulder to shoulder. We got it.”

“You got it.”

Bayley’s response makes Becky unsure if she’s simply parroting her words in reassurance or if she’s only replying with a jazzed type of “Okay.” Either way, Becky doesn’t delay another moment before looking at Sasha again, getting a firm nod.

“One… two… _three,”_ the final number is strained as the redheaded woman lifts the boards with tightened biceps, Sasha wincing as she does the same and feeling like they’re raising a breaking crate of bowling balls that threaten to roll onto their feet and their teammates’ skulls.

Charlotte and Bayley don’t skip a beat as they sneak below, knees pressing into the dirt while scuffling along the ground before pushing themselves upright and turning to wait at the end of the tunnel for the others to be safe.

“Go,” the Irish woman nods to the other side, though Sasha tries to argue without anything coming out. “I’ll be fine as you move, just move _quick,”_ her eyes bug, and that’s enough to make the mercenary start to crawl under the boards with her elbows bent to help Becky hold it up at least a small amount.

For the short frame of time, Becky’s cheeks puff out when she underestimated the weight of the boards without help from Sasha, and she can tell Charlotte and Bayley worry from where they stand, wishing to disobey the redhead’s orders of not helping. But, truly, she was right: the tunnel beyond the blockage narrows with room for only one and a half people to stand side to side, and it’s not worth the risk of accidentally tripping over one another to assist. Roughly, it’s not a tunnel or a hallway at all; they wonder if it was previously a secret passageway, hidden behind wooden supports like a scaffolding — or even a skinny closet for nothing in particular.

With their obvious concern in mind, Becky tries to remain unbothered by the pain coursing through her body as she waits, shutting her eyes and enduring the pain flaming upward through her tendons as her arms begin to go numb. The veins in her neck feel like they’re going to burst, as well, straining her shoulders downward as her teeth bear and her breathing comes to a halt with her focus being so zoned in on determination to hold the weight steadily.

It feels like centuries pass after Sasha releases her grip, though, realistically, it’s been a mere five seconds until the purple-haired woman is set on the other side and ready to do the same for her. A few, loose rocks from the top begin to topple down the short stack leaning on the boards, pooling at Becky’s feet as if they’re bound to start avalanching more and more.

“Your turn,” Sasha grunts once the heaviness of the boards is back on her palms, dragging her hands down for a moment until she has a better grip, and her boots press into the ground as her shoulders sag.

“Are you sure?” Becky sees her struggle, like Sasha is bound to drop the weight, but she can make out the severely irritated, _“not now”_ type of dagger-like eyes she’s given through the visible crack between larger rocks sat on the boards, so she begins to move quickly.

Her knees are slammed into the dirt and, on impact, she army crawls forward when she hears a menacing, sliding sound come from the boards, the toes of her boots digging into the soft spots of the Earth and bringing her forward with a rumble shaking her forearms.

An all-too-telling rumble.

It causes her to begin to panic on instant, images flashing through her mind of what could happen next, and she even sees Bayley and Charlotte both jump forward as if something really bad is about to happen, which, in turn, completely freezes Becky as opposed to her normal, quick thinking. She doesn’t have time to harp on the paranoia that stirs her, in the end, as large rocks begin to topple from the middle of the stack, leaving an equally panicked Sasha to make a hasty decision.

The mercenary uses her swift motions and calculations, forcibly pushing the rubble forward before reaching down and dragging the other woman away from the scene by her bent forearms, getting two feet from the harsh crash that slams into the Earth right where her feet were previously pushed into the loosened dirt. Surprised, brown eyes unblink as they stare at the dust floating around the tunnel where she lies, Sasha crouched next to her and breathing heavily.

Behind them, Charlotte runs a hand through her hair and walks into the fresh air, taking deep gasps of breath without it being heard. Bayley glances over her shoulder to see the blonde then with her hands on her hips, chin tilted upward as her eyes are closed, diluted rays of sun on her face. After, when she hears the other women beginning to stand, the brunette turns back to the tunnel and approaches, hearing a quiet, exhaled “Thanks” from Becky to Sasha.

She earns a simple nod in return, then Sasha explains, “I saw it beginning to slip more, and━”

“You did good,” Becky interrupts with a solidness, though she clears her throat and forces a smile when she sees Bayley standing there ━ like she needs to put on a brave face for their driver.

Their _newbie._

“Are you alright?” comes the question, enthusiastically worried with shining, puppy-dog eyes.

“What?” the Irish woman pretends to be indifferent to what just happened, unscathed and unbothered with a contorted face. “Oh, that?” she smiles with ego, a carelessness, brushing it off. “Pfft, nothing to it. Gotta trust in my skills a bit more, love,” she passes the woman, and completely ignores the look of disbelief that Charlotte shoots in her direction, as well as the incredulous snicker and clenched yet shifting jaw.

She completely ignores Charlotte’s anger, her unsettled anxiety about what just happened, and, most of all, she ignores the first time the historian has shown any type of bold emotion, outright concern for her former, one-venture partner during this trip. For all the times Becky has tried to get something out of Charlotte since they’ve been brought back into each other’s lives ━ or since she’s wiggled her way into the blonde’s life again ━ she just waved away her own, desired objective, and, despite it being unknowingly, the historian shakes her head as she follows the treasure hunter.

Her eyes narrow while staring at the back of Becky’s head, glaring slightly as Bayley walks alongside her and notices, though Charlotte is too stuck in her head to ease up on her irritation. Bayley keeps silent, as well, and Sasha walks behind them all.

She wishes to scream. She wishes to grab Becky by the shoulders, and she wishes to tell her to wake up, to stop pretending, to stop putting her life on the line in any case. She also wants to ask her what the fuck she’s thinking nowadays, how she can blink away such a terrible misstep like it’s nothing. Sure, that might’ve been one of the milder jumpscares ━ one of the smaller mishaps that nearly left Becky leg-less ━ but how can someone possibly outright swallow their fear and put on a brightened smile like nothing happened? Even if that smile appears to be synthetic, how can you merely _strive_ to pretend that you’re not affected? It’s impossible.

God, why is it so _fucking_ hard for Becky to show fear, to show vulnerability and the expression of terror, dismay, self-directed worry? Why is it so difficult for her to be human, for once? Why does it seem like, nowadays, it’s all ten times as forced as it used to be when one would guess she had grown during their time apart? Why, after all this time, is she still keeping things inside, coddling herself and her own ego with driven hands that Charlotte _knows_ shake at night when she’s alone?

There’s something said about pride, Charlotte muses.

There’s something said about pride, and that something is _nothing_ good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Methinks Charlotte is gonna flip her lid soon.
> 
> No, but really: I think it's yikes-worthy how Becky realizes that she doesn't portray emotions on the outside, but she doesn't comprehend how insufferable that is from Charlotte's perspective -- not because Charlotte wants her to out-right say, "I miss you," or anything like that, but because Charlotte wishes that Becky would snap outta whatever's keeping her from being a normal human. It's not about the little things; it's not about the childish "tequila" comment. Right now, Charlotte thinks Becky is simply too prideful to be honest with everyone -- or maybe she even thinks she's too cocky to do so -- but there are in actuality an extreme amount of factors that keep Becky from being outright humane and that's where the issue lies.
> 
> I'm happy to say we're getting much closer to them reaching a boiling point that's finally going to kick the story into high gear. I've held out on you for so long when it comes to these two ladies communicating, so let's just say the other shoe's drop is imminent. But, in the grand scheme of things, this story is a slowburn for Charlynch and we haven't even scratched the surface of the what's to come, so keep that in mind.
> 
> As for my writing process, it's slowed down a little, but it's pretty steady (don't jinx this, @ self). The obstacles in-story are heating up, so maybe that'll give me more desire to push through. But that's where it stands right now.
> 
> Hope you're still enjoying the ride! I know sometimes things get a little patchy but it's more difficult than I planned for when it comes to banging out actual, in-game Uncharted chapters within a realistic time-frame (hence my little time-stamps on each chapter). Who would've known Nathan conquered most of that in-game stuff within a two- or three-day span? Yeet.


	10. Chapter 10

SUN., 12:43 P.M.

* * *

With the minor obstacle now in their rearview, the team works their way forward along a skinny, dirt path that winds and maneuvers around a curved, cobblestone wall at the temple’s backside.

Charlotte trails the rest of them, still lost in her head with eyes burning a hole through Becky’s red hair, wavy and slightly damp at the tips as a result of when she’d been leaning over the side of the boat earlier. Occasionally, Sasha moves into her view so her line of sight is broken, but she supposes it’s for the best; whenever the obstruction happens, she finds the wherewithal to blink again, taking a second to refocus afterwards with still-dry eyes. Bayley walks alongside Becky for the most part, a step or two behind but primarily staying diagonal as she witnesses the path’s upcoming checkpoints at the same time that Becky does. Such strong curiosity is portrayed in the way she looks around, and, before the archway’s collapse from minutes ago, that inquisitive nature had primarily been the focus of Charlotte’s island adventure since the beginning. At least it’s _something_ to distract her from surrounding events and tidbits about what the island is and what it’s just waiting to do to them.

Once upon a time, Charlotte was in Bayley’s place. Shiny and new, ready to subject herself to a fresh setting with opened, learning eyes. Ready to strain herself with strides to experience foreign things. Ready to test her own limits in order to expand her knowledge.

But we all know how it turned out, in the end.

Of course, Becky’s misfortune back there didn’t help the historian’s internal, panicking monologue one bit, her doubt or dismay, but she’ll be damned if she lets that worry show. It’s one thing to care for Becky in an equal amount that Sasha and Bayley do, but it’s a whole, new ballgame when defining that care as something deeper than being partners ━ something like it used to be as they first worked together. Unfortunately, she’s aware that it’ll always exist within her, and there’s no escaping it, diluting it, erasing it, _ignoring_ it. She supposes that Becky will always be that one person to her — that one person who’s stained her mind with both good and bad, but, first and foremost, endless questions and _what if_ ’s. With that being said, it doesn’t mean she has to _voice_ any of those cares, those good and bad memories, those endless questions and _what if_ ’s.

Becky can take care of herself ━ or even choose _not_ to take care of herself. It’s her choice. Her decision. Her consequences. Not Charlotte’s, and not anyone else’s.

Charlotte presses her tongue to her inner cheek, running a gloved hand through her hair until it falls against her shoulders and she’s stuck in a desperate attempt to divert her own attention by picking at her blonde ends.

The distraction doesn’t last long, realistically. In fact, her fingers drop from her hair within two seconds of swirling her thumb against a single strand once the group is met by a high, slick and cobblestone wall with little to no abrasions that would allow for them to climb like back in the cavern. Taking a step backwards, the side of a man-made temple comes into view, sitting atop the lone wall and blending into the side of a rock formation that’s as large as a four-story apartment complex. Similar to in most other cases they’ve seen thus far, pillars are toppled over against the side of the temple, cracked and incomplete, leaving ruins in their wake as some are perched on the thicker end of a nearby cliff that juts out from the side of the central rock formation.

Currently, they’re pinned in the area with no way to reach the top of the cliff, the stone wall set in their extended, winding path as it’s now to their right, with a large, mossy boulder on their left, and the side of that extended cliff straight ahead. At the edge of the cliff, its top portion is elongated and thinned out, acting as an overhang to the scarce foliage, clay-like shore, and a modest portion of the ocean below.

Becky’s eyes squint and a soft, deliberative humming emanates from her throat, taking in the options in wonderance of their next move. On the surface, it appears they’ve reached a dead end, leaving them to head back in the direction where those rocks and boards came tumbling down. Admittedly, she still tastes dirt on her lips whenever her tongue drags along them, and, admittedly, her arms still feel weak from both the strain and the adrenaline that, afterwards, drained from her body.

It’s like she’s crashing and breaking down little by little, piece by piece, but now isn’t the time to indulge in her weak points. Sasha proved to have her back, and that’s what she should be focusing on. Her teammates have her back, and it’s time to have theirs. It’s time to carry them through this, no matter what gruesome image or distressful, harmfully negative thought ails or infects her mind.

She sighs through her nostrils, then walks to the left as opposed to continuously right. Two steps later and she’s able to make out two, rustic posts on the cliff’s side, then an intact bridge stretching over to the parallel, mossy boulder. Her eyes drift along the boulder’s surface and to its end where it drops all the way to the ground, into the ocean, boots scuffling to the right as far as permitted until she’s essentially against the cliff’s bottom portion furthest from the overhang. With a bit of focusing and tilting of her head, it isn’t long before she catches a glimpse of similar handholds to the cave’s climbing regions, whitened and untouched by the air’s moisture. They’re always the most sturdy when unweathered by natural occurrences or erosion.

Her lips purse as she gets onto her tippy-toes, brows raised, stretching her torso in order to see where the handholds lead amongst the massive stone until she’s lowering herself back to the ground.

“What do you suppose those were?” Bayley inquires to get Becky’s attention. “The ruins,” she gives them a partial hand-wave.

She frowns at the question as a reaction given that she doesn’t really have a mere inkling about what they used to be, but she still hazards a guess. Better than nothing.

“They remind me of Saint Dismas’ Cathedral back in Scotland. Less snow, but…” her cheeks puff out with a heavy, dumbfounded exhale, “I’m not sure. A temple of some kind, maybe?” it’s more of a question. “This is my first visit, and all.”

“So...” the mercenary doesn’t shy away from disrupting the short conversation. “Where to?” at her need to stay on track, Becky’s eyebrows raise before dropping immediately after.

“The only way’s up,” the words are casual, giving the large boulder a vague point. “My bet is we’re crossin’ that bridge to find more ruins like these _somewhere…”_ she searches the thrashing water below them, then turns back to the women who listen ━ save Sasha who dreads the plan of crossing another bridge so soon, “southwest, I’d say.”

She waits for a question or body-language-oriented feedback to come, taking a pause to allow their curiosities or anything else to flow forward, but to no avail. Something she does notice, however, is that Charlotte, this time, stares at her with a shifted jaw and eyes that could pierce through her soul if the blonde sincerely wanted such. An uneasy sensation stirs within Becky’s gut, sensing that she’s in cold trouble for something unknown. Well, _somewhat_ unknown; she remains stuck on her own, idiotic comment regarding tequila, and, although it’s something paltry that she believes Charlotte wouldn’t hold above her head, in the long run, it seems that she’s still pissed about it.

God, why didn’t she just keep her mouth shut, for once?

Becky gives herself a subtle eye-roll while in the midst of turning toward the boulder’s handholds, grabbing onto them and crushing the insignificant obstacle with ease. It’s a short climb, one, two, and three props before she’s braced against a minute indent shaping the rock’s surface, and a few clumps of moss fall off the edge of it. She brushes her knees once she’s standing atop, its major surface more flattened like it’s turned into a corroded ledge once you’re looking from above instead of from its base.

She’s soon joined at the bridge’s near side by Bayley, then Sasha, and, lastly, Charlotte, all taking their time sturdying themselves atop the rock with the brunette, in particular, admiring the view from where they now gather.

Truly, Becky hates to break up her concentration on the surrounding area’s beauty, but Sasha is already psyching herself up to cross the swaying bridge with an anxious skip in her step that, on sight, makes the redhead snicker. If Becky didn’t know any better, she’d presume that Sasha’s bold mindset goes hand-in-hand with the phrase, “Let’s get this over with,” or, more brashly, “Fuck it.”

And that’s exactly it; Sasha gets to the other side, chest constricting with her throat tightening in soreness, fists clenched with her limbs burning to not be ignored. But, as she stands on solid ground, now stationed on the parallel cliff, she mentally repeats to herself that it’s over with, that it’s done, that she made it, and that she’s accomplished the obstacle before anyone else ━ all while the others stare at her from afar. No one mentions her eagerness or jokes from where they stand in the distance, but they all observe the way Sasha appears disheveled in a mental sense, putting her hands on her hips and walking over to the shorter side of the cliff that’s shoved into the side of the larger rock formation. They _especially_ don’t mention how Sasha purposely, tellingly keeps her eyes away from the edge towering over the sea, neck near-permanently stiffened away from the height.

Becky raises her eyebrows then turns back to the two other women accompanying her on the boulder. Like minutes ago, Bayley remains staring into the distance with clear bliss written over her posture, and the Irish woman smiles.

“Nice view?” Becky asks as Bayley’s attention proceeds to be captivated by the three-sixty views, the distance, and the tip of the smaller island ━ the smaller island with that lighthouse-esque tower ━ to their right.

“Yeah, sorry,” a quiet laugh comes with the answer, like the navigator knows how aloof she’s been since they climbed to the top of the boulder, and Becky’s words ultimately steer her away from giving it another chance to steal her attention back.

Bayley passes Charlotte who, also, has been lost searching the horizon for something, but a more solemn expression intoxicates her features ━ not appearing wistful or dreamy, or even lighthearted. No. Her expression looks sadly vacant, or regretfully mindless. Like she’s not looking at the tangible scenery around them, but as if she’s been staring at a backdrop of it without sincerely reveling in it at all. She’s just there, hair blowing in the breeze, backpack slung over her shoulders while her hands rest by her sides.

If you were to ask Becky, she’d admit that it’s a worse-looking complexion and demeanor than if Charlotte was outright angry with her ━ even worse than if she was disappointed. Becky would almost rather be the target of the historian’s silent outcry, not wanting to see the woman so unbothered or emotionless by what surrounds them. “Unbothered” in the worst way, as though she feels done, or too tired to even concern herself with feeling a damn thing anymore.

And maybe that’s selfish for Becky to say. Maybe wishing heavy emotion ━ or even a _single_ emotion ━ upon Charlotte is too selfish, solely because her vacant eyes and silence is too much for the redhead, herself, to bear. Maybe Charlotte is more comfortable this way. Maybe she doesn’t want to reveal what she’s thinking, or that, inside, she’s actually feeling a whole lot.

God only knows Becky can relate to that.

She sighs, and it’s the simple act of the Irish woman breathing out that frees Charlotte from whatever trance that had consumed her for moments on end with Bayley now standing next to Sasha on the opposite side of the bridge. At the sound, and at Becky’s wandering eyes, Charlotte looks at her as if she wants to say something. She actually opens her mouth when she realizes she’d been watched throughout her vulnerable moment of quietude, eyes narrowing a fraction with her forehead creasing, but her lips are sealed and she shakes her head.

“Charlotte,” she tries, but it’s lost on the blonde who passes her and steps onto the first board of the bridge without a care in the world, leaving Becky alone on the boulder.

Again, she tilts her head backward with eyes closing in distress, mild anguish and longing, hands then raising to grip the straps of her backpack with a readiness to follow along the bridge.

That is, until a snapping sound is heard.

In the blink of an eye, right as Charlotte jumps off the final, chipped slab of wood and onto the cliff where Bayley and Sasha stand, the left rope of the bridge wears down in the middle to a single strand, then topples and twists. The rest of the bridge falls with it once it gathers too much tension, collapsing plank by plank until they smack against the ground in between the boulder where she lingers and the cliff where the others wait for her to join. Now, there’s no way of reaching them.

Charlotte peeks down the side of the cliff, lips parted before her shoulders visibly slump with Becky staring at her from where she stands, mouth opened and dull eyes raising to the blonde whose body language looks… less than guilty?

Becky offers her a breathy, semi-incredulous chuckle.

“Thank you, just… _thank you,”_ once she speaks, it’s sarcastic ━ albeit playfully so, not to say Charlotte picks up on the gentle humor as her eyes narrow in question. “You know, I think you did that purposely.”

At that, it finally extracts a round of dark comedy from the blonde, biting the tip of her tongue in a pang of annoyance before responding with snark.

“Oh, sweetie, I was just making sure you had another chance to have some ‘fun’ and show off more of your skills,” the remark is lathered in faux innocence, a challenge within the words as brown eyes glare with a sick smirk reappearing.

Although it’s endearing to hear Charlotte hit back after hours of silence on her side of things ━ not to mention those sharpened glances until they turned into desolate gazes and just no feeling _at all_ ━ Becky refuses to let the historian win a single round of snappy comebacks. Instead, immediately after Charlotte feels as though she gained the upper hand and begins to turn away with a cocky, outsmarting grin, Becky scours the boulder for another way to reach the other cliff, all while offering her reply.

“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” it’s nothing short of ego-stroking and taunting, Becky watching Charlotte’s shoulders tense up as the blonde is facing away. “I knew you wanted some conversation.”

She catches the taller woman vaguely wave her hand at nothing in particular, as if to say she’s over the abrupt conversation, and Becky’s smile gradually fades from across her mouth. It was short-lived, but it was enough to know that at least some aspect of Charlotte is still there, and that’s all she needs.

Now, she switches her focus onto getting across to the other side, wandering over to the far area of the boulder where another, two pillars from previous temples are lying on their sides. She avoids them, though doesn’t hesitate to trace the horizontally scattered bumps and cracks, even picking up a baseball-sized chip and tossing it nearby once she’s done examining it between her gloved fingers.

Without looking up, her peripherals note multiple pieces of wood sticking out from the central rock on the opposite side of the overhang, all built into solid stone. Two of them are slanted downward, threatening to bend but otherwise remaining in one piece without collapsing. They’re chipped at the ends, broken off of a larger mass or, time ago, used to prop something up as if smaller supports for part of the now-collapsed temple. Currently, they just resemble monkey bars at a playground, simply made from wood with splinters galore. She’ll take splinters over being stranded on a boulder any day, though, resulting in her spur-the-moment jump onto the first piece of wood with a grunt seeping through her teeth.

To no one’s surprise, it makes a soft crackling sound, hanging on by a thread and screaming at Becky to move diligently or else it’ll snap into pieces, a menacing ten or so feet separating her from the ground. One arm after another, she swings her body forward and advances with ease, the act being so simple, so immature, that she smiles and laughs slightly while accomplishing it, all while Sasha raises her eyebrows in interest and Bayley mutually chuckles at the treasure hunter’s antics. Charlotte still has her back facing the Irish woman, but she peers over her shoulder when she hears a thump come from close by, signaling that Becky is, after minutes, standing on the cliff with them. It earns an eye-roll, knowing how smug the redhead likely appears now that she’s avoided minor catastrophe and got past it with flying colors.

Becky doesn’t jump to rub it in, much to Charlotte’s surprise. She doesn’t even smirk once the blonde is relatively facing her, nor does she give her the cocky hum that she’s heard time and time again. As a matter of fact, the treasure hunter’s success apparently flies from her mind as soon as she’s standing upon the cliff, and her attention’s prime focus is locked onto the previously unnoticed height of the rock on which they shuffle around.

The overhang, itself, cascades a shadow upon a single, spotted row of trees and then some of the shore, but primarily frothy water that pools around broken pieces of large rocks and additional rubble from the temple. A roaring, splashing sound vibrates around the cliff’s base, also as it smacks against the side of a second, skinny, pillar-like formation holding the ledge up despite Becky missing it earlier. If you were to stand a hundred yards away in order to get a full image of the cliff, it’d resemble the offspring of the Gateway Arch monument in St. Louis, Missouri and the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, France. Thick on one side, extending out from the island’s biggest, center rock formation, stretching and creating an empty archway beneath with a single, skinny leg used as a natural stilt.

As another aspect, the group now has a clearer, undisrupted view of the lesser portion of the island from which they traveled here. Its stubby tower sporting the giant button is now the size of Becky’s thumb as she holds it up momentarily, giving it a silly grin and a _“would you look at that?”_ type of chuckle as it’s far away due to both the current island’s size and the distance from sea level.

It doesn’t enchant every one of the women, on the other hand; Sasha takes one look at how high in the air they are before her throat reverts to its sore state, so she swallows hard and walks away from the ledge where her knees previously shook, threatening to drop her. Her hands mimic her knees, as well, but it’s easier to hide those as she rests her hand on a lone tree that’s sprouting from the center of the cliff, thick roots abound. She takes a breath, being ignored by everyone else as their backs are turned toward her.

The Irish woman observes the precarious scene, admiring her surroundings like she’s fallen into an exotic postcard that feels all too real. Then again, she’s having trouble realizing that this _is_ real, and part of her wonders if she’s still in her motel room, simply dreaming of what the island will be like. Currently, her fears and intimidation dissipate, and, currently, she feels calm. Relaxed, almost. And, honestly, that’s not the mindset she wishes to be in; she knows this place is anything _but_ calm and relaxing, and she should be careful in regards to how she allows herself to think while they’re here. Any wrong move could be fatal, and becoming too comfortable could be even more dangerous than panicking to the point of slipping into a trap ━ or shifting her foot backwards and onto a hidden pressure plate like years ago.

Her jaw stiffens, breathing out through her nose.

She peeks over the side of the cliff, away from the area which they came where the bridge snapped and she was left pacing the area for a new way across. Carefully, her foot slides against grey, sandy marble and closer to the cliff’s ending, pursing her lips while looking down with stiff motions and a blocky posture. At the height from the water to where they stand, and at the distance to the next piece of rock ━ A.K.A. the rest of the path, up ahead ━ she makes a face. Its start is approximately twenty yards away, being a smaller cliff that resides built into the side of the central rock formation.

With that in mind, the redhead realizes they’ll have to begin the daunting task of rope-swinging and harsh landing, and the realization is only strengthened when she sees a pre-tied rope secured to the tree on which Sasha leans. Becky furrows her eyebrows as she steps closer to it, grasping the knot that’s tied to a thick branch and seeing how well-anchored it is once the mercenary turns to see what she’s doing. Suddenly, without warning, Becky wraps both hands around the rope and strongly tugs on it, jaw clenched with a tiny grunt coming from her throat before confirming that it’s sturdy. No crunch. No crack. No awry sound comes from the tree’s limb.

She nods to herself.

“Alright, it’s time to learn the art of swinging,” putting her hands on her hips, Becky whips around to face the rest of her crew as Sasha side-steps so she’s standing with them. “I know you’ve already done this one way or another, but I feel the need to say swinging to rocks is different than most other grappling, especially with delicate cliffs like these,” a pause breaks the thought before she resumes with emphasis. _“Don’t_ second-guess yourself. _Don’t_ hesitate. If you need more time, take it, but hold on tight and trust you’ll successfully make the jump before trying again, okay?”

During the brief delay while she studies their expressions and vast attention, her eyebrows raise, silently asking for their agreement. Their silence and blinking stares are enough, so she opts to continue with a quieter voice.

“You only have one chance at it sometimes, and it can be… _unforgiving._ Rock doesn’t leave you much room for mistakes.”

Sasha is first to comment, musing under her breath, “That’s uplifting.”

Becky tilts her head to the side, jaw slack as she looks off the side of the cliff, a hidden agenda within her gaze, and a small, breathy chuckle comes forward once turning back.

“Just figured I’d explain the, uh, _ropes_ of it,” the joke is delivered with a childish smirk, Bayley smiling instantly while shaking her head at both the comedy and her own amusement by it, Sasha rolls her eyes so hard that her eyelids flicker, and Charlotte flat-out faces away, above it all.

Her throat is cleared next, maybe out of question at her own spur-the-moment humor, then she tugs on the rope a second time for good measure.

“With that said,” her arms release their tension, rope hanging by her side, “you all ready for the jump? It’s a big one.”

Considering the severity of what they’re about to undertake, the hint of smirk in her voice opposes the scenario and its plausible effects on their mindsets once they ━ _hopefully_ ━ make it to the other side of the watery gorge between them and the path’s start. At the same time, her voice also low-key encourages them with an unspoken declaration that she’s willingly to be fearless on her teammates’ behalf.

Still, no one has the courage to shake their heads at the idea or propose that they find another way around, instead ━ not to say that any of them sincerely would try to deter the zoned-in, brown eyes that study them like bugs. They purely stand unmoving, set in place like they’re a part of the stone they’re resting upon, yet Becky nonverbally offers the rope to each of the women with raised eyebrows and a upbeat “Hm? Hm?” asking who wishes to go first.

Much to Becky’s surprise ━ or maybe it shouldn’t be, taking into account the woman’s profession ━ Bayley steps up to the plate before anyone else jumps to. What _is,_ on the other hand, undoubtedly surprising is Bayley’s lack of outright nerves displayed when she takes the rope from Becky’s hand, the Irish woman bouncing her eyebrows in an impressed manner.

In all honesty, the brunette _is_ a tinge apprehensive about the jump. Sure, she’s dove from certain heights, one time bound and another time blindfolded, but at least, for those, she was given a larger guarantee of surviving the stunt without acquiring a measly scratch or scrape in the process. Here, there are absolutely no guarantees, no do-evers, no end of the scene, no safety nets, and she swallows hard while shuffling her climbing boots to the very edge of the thinning slab of rock, peering over its edge to see waves crashing against jagged stone. Here lies the reminder that there’s no inflatable cushion to catch her if the rope snaps, or if the small tree gives out, if the stone crumbles, or her gloves slip. Here lies the reminder that there’s absolutely no guarantee.

“I can go first, if you learn better by example,” Becky whispers from behind her, not rushing their driver but attempting to be as courteous as possible given the high-risk situation. “The same goes for you two,” she turns her head to look at Sasha and Charlotte who wait their turn, though she doesn’t necessarily halt to get an answer ━ not from them, anyway.

“No, I want to do it,” paired with a curt nod, Bayley’s voice is serious and unchanging, like she’s convinced herself of the decision and has left no room for internal argument.

Her tone is also what gets Becky to leave her be, backing off and peering over her shoulder while shuffling backward a couple of steps in order to give Bayley all the room she needs ━ not that it’s much when, with a single step and firm grip, the brunette leaps off the rock so she’s out of sight.

It’s a menacing timeframe after she’s gone and the rope is stretched to its full potential, signaling that she’s fully dangling in the center of the archway. There’s absolutely no way of keeping an eye on her, even when Sasha moves as close to the edge as she possibly can to catch a glimpse of Bayley. No avail. Everyone holds their breath, in the meantime, almost listening and waiting for a somber sound to splash below, but it never comes and, truthfully, that’s what they’re able to rely on to know Bayley is still in the game. Becky keeps a firm eye on the rope as its still attached to the anchoring tree, eyes fixated on it beginning to move as if Bayley is swinging herself ━ only confirmed by the sound of slight struggling with the noise bouncing off the acoustic stone beneath.

Suddenly, the brunette in question flings herself at the proper cliff twenty yards away with steady arms and bent legs, grunting loudly as she lands on her feet and stumbles a tad under the speed of the leap, though she easily gets up to brush her pants. All three of the other women exhale at the sight of Bayley giving them a thumbs up, then they proceed to smile at her accomplishment.

“Not so bad, huh?” Becky shouts over with a proud, beaming grin, and she watches Bayley laugh before finally hunching over with her hands on her knees, catching her breath as if the events have just now caught up with her.

She knows that adrenaline crash all too well, and it gets another head-shake with that never-disappearing, silly smile, all while pulling the end of the rope back up to the surface where she stands with Charlotte and Sasha.

“I’m next,” the mercenary's decision is blunt, lacking enthusiasm about the jump, replaced by a straightforward desperation to get it over with, and she doesn’t leave room for debate when she snatches the rope from Becky’s hands once it’s fully in her grasp.

Either way, Becky wouldn’t have protested the idea, though she wishes she could tease Sasha and ask if she checked with Charlotte, first. She decides against being a pain, of course, since the blonde isn’t even paying attention to them right now and is actually admiring the view with, this time, a wiped-out smile and innocent eyes. The thought gets a mimicked, fresher smile from the redhead who has to force herself to refocus enough when she’s checking the rope’s strength.

Similar to before Bayley’s leap, Becky feels the rope’s knot against the tree’s thick limb out of precaution, deciding that it’s still tight and perfectly intact, so, without further ado, she gives Sasha the go-ahead through a single nod and dramatic wave of her hand.

Again, there’s clear, fierce hesitation, and, again, Becky doesn’t rush the purple-haired woman. Although she’s aware that Sasha has gone on a handful of dangerous expeditions prior to this one ━ a fact she learned when reading more into the mercenary, not to say she found much ━ something tells her that she’s not used to leaping and climbing all that much. Most trails call for hard work and laborious activities as such, but, at the same time, a modest amount of them solely deal with short spurts of it, usually within a specific stretch of time without being scattered, or they deal with being eased into those risks. Here, it’s the opposite, as they’re already conquering some massive roadblocks, and she’s not sure if it’ll lessen as they get further into the venture, or if this is only the beginning.

Her thoughts are truncated once Sasha grips the rope tightly and jumps from the ledge, choosing to do it backwards and slowly, like she’s scaling a building, whereas Bayley full-on dove off the side like Tarzan. The comparison makes Becky chuckle quietly, and Charlotte actually turns to her when she hears the sound, but the redhead doesn’t mention it ━ nor does she notice until the very end when the historian looks away again.

Evidently, according to the way Sasha quickly comes into view as she joins Bayley on the other cliff, her unverbalized proclamation of _“Let’s get this over with”_ carries out fully as she attempts to clear the watery obstacle in the blink of an eye. Becky purses her lips at how solidly Sasha makes it across, though it doesn’t stop Bayley from grabbing ahold of the mercenary’s forearm when she wants to help her further onto the cliff to be secure. Sasha grasps onto Bayley’s shoulder for a moment, as well, and Becky can make out the brunette asking, “You good?” to which the other woman nods and forces a smile about.

“Okay,” Becky exhales and her eyes dart away from the scene, meanwhile pulling the rope back to the surface as Charlotte lingers, feet away.

Five seconds pass before the rope’s end is between Becky’s fingers, the Irish woman retracing her steps back to the tree and poking at the knot again. Thankfully, it’s secure, and she doesn’t waste time spinning on her heel, the rope offered to Charlotte with an exaggerated motion, also paired with the comment, “After you, Your Majesty.”

The historian evades brown eyes as she takes it from the other woman’s hands, outright passing her without a drop of acknowledgement, no nod, or hum, or anything, almost as if Becky is completely invisible to the surrounding world.

Although it’s another, subtle form of rejection, Becky doesn’t have time to look below the surface of Charlotte’s obvious dismissal of her slight humor when the historian takes little to no time starting her swing to the other cliff. Within mere moments of Charlotte being given the rope, she positions her feet against the edge of the rock, looks to her left and to her right, flexes her fingers against the stiff fibers, and slinks down before Becky can beg to imagine what she’s thinking.

And, even faster is the sight of Charlotte landing on the smaller, flat stone with the others, all waiting for Becky to swing across so they can figure out how to make it onto the path as it’s perched above where they stand.

Much to her dismay, it takes her longer than initially planned to settle her thoughts, all clamoring with comments and musings about how Charlotte has tremendously improved with this whole, active-hunting thing since the last time they worked together. The emotionless facade the blonde was wearing was the least bit adventurous, though, which certainly gives Becky an off-putting vibe. It’s no secret that she’s endlessly pissed off the historian, but, naturally, that wouldn’t mean all emotion would be void from Charlotte’s existence. It’s weird, even taking into account how, seconds prior, Charlotte had been admiring the scenery with a faint grin, and, before that, when she was looking around without an ounce of life in her eyes. There’s been more back-and-forth than Becky can claw to keep up with, and it’s very opposing of Charlotte’s usual persona. It’s worrisome.

But they’re here for business, above anything else, and Becky nods to herself while pulling the rest of the rope back to where she stands. Her turn to jump from the rock arrives once it’s in her clutches, giving the stump one last pat with a desire for reassurance about the anchor.

She’s not sure why she’s suddenly being nipped at with a punctual injection of nervousness. Back when she jumped from cliff to cliff with Paige, or dove from wherever, or slipped through the most compact caves ━ sometimes underwater, other times during avalanches ━ she’d never bat an eyelash. It’d simply be part of the territory, part of what makes this magnificent, and something she knew they had to do in regards to advancing the trail. Now, Becky can tell she’s being watched, like she’s being assessed and recorded by those who agreed to assist her on this journey, and it’s nerve-wracking.

It’s even worse knowing that she’s delaying as much as she can, her palms sweating against the insides of her gloves with the rope held in her hand, eyes staring into the threatening water below as it thrashes against fallen rocks.

“Don’t second-guess yourself,” she recites with her eyes closed. “Don’t hesitate.”

Without allowing herself any further room to lose her usually unbridled confidence in a battle with her detrimental thoughts, Becky keeps a stable grip on the rope and jumps from the cliff’s edge, free-floating in the air while clenching her teeth so hard that the pain spreads to beneath her chin. Once she’s moderately at a standstill, hanging in the air above thick water surrounding every rock formation nearby, her legs kick back and forth, slowly but surely, solidly swinging her body to build up a proper arc. It takes three or four, major motions before she has enough speed and height to jump, to throw herself and leap across the field of open air, and her hands let go from the rope once her angling is precise.

Precise, but not precise _enough._

Because, at the very last second, at the very final tick of a clock, she accidentally stutters in her movements, twitching and letting go of the rope a fraction too late as her momentum begins to swing backward while she jumps forward. Suddenly, her swinging arc isn’t wide enough. Suddenly, it’s more sharpened and she’s bound to crash nearly straight downward instead of flying forward with a smoothness. And the realization of it only comes once she’s in the air with a self-directed “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” being on sheer autopilot when she outstretches her arms while leaning her legs back like a superhero, all in hopes that she can reach for the cliff’s lesser-intact, bottom portion.

At the same time, her mistake isn’t missed by the rest of her team, and they watch on with panic whilst running to the edge of the cliff with Charlotte wide-eyed once they hear a thump and a sort of yelp, followed by multiple, smaller stones falling from a surface and into the water with a pattern of various noises. With caution and the internal, cycling thought of not wishing to find a gruesome scene splattered against the wall of the cliff’s bottom half, Bayley is the one to lean furthest over the edge to check on Becky’s whereabouts.

She spots the redhead unharmed, only a single knick blemishing her right elbow from where she crashed against the cold, damp rock, but otherwise Becky looks up at the navigator and gives her a laugh that most people would dub an act of insanity or failure to thoroughly experience fear.

“Looks like I’ve been forgiven this time,” Becky jokes more so to herself at her survival, though her heart thumps against her chest and threatens to be thrown up into the water.

Her words extract relief from Bayley and a mutual exhale from Sasha, but Charlotte only backs away from the edge of the upper cliff with an eye-roll that’s pointed enough to be caught by the mercenary.

“What?”

Initially, Charlotte wishes to shake her head at the idea of responding, ready to just move past the current ordeal, but she can’t hold herself back from mumbling, “She’s like a cat with a deathwish,” as she gets a chuckle from Sasha.

A grunt behind them causes the two to turn back towards its source with Bayley standing at the edge, Becky’s forearms pulling her onto the slap of rock with the brunette’s help, afterwards all eyes watching the redhead brush off her exposed skin, her backpack straps, and her gloves, themselves.

“What took you so long?”

Becky’s eyes lift to meet Bayley’s, the driver wearing a teasing smirk that she finds the strength to scoff at.

“Don’t get cocky,” her chuckle is curt, back forcibly straightening with a single crack being heard. “Though, I _do_ have to admit, you’ve impressed me,” her eyebrows raise at Bayley before she turns to Sasha. “Not so newbie anymore, yeah?”

With terse, unspoken admission that holds a modest amount of actual sincerity in the form of a basic nod, Sasha’s eyes shift between both Bayley and Becky until they ultimately land on the driver, then dart away. The action is timid, in a way dubious as if Sasha doesn’t know how to react ━ though, in fairness, her heart constantly thumps from her own jump, particularly reminded by the fact they’re all still standing upon the smaller cliff.

She blinks back to the massive swing, how she slunk down the rope, regretfully observed her surroundings before sealing her eyes shut and taking her lower lip between her teeth so harshly that she can currently taste a minor sourness of iron on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes were forced open by Becky’s previous words, but she has to admit that she’s never doubted herself; she’s only held doubt in her surroundings. The idea of the stone archway collapsing into two, the tree not being as deeply rooted as they believed, the rope being too thin to hold, or the destination cliff buckling once she landed. Nonetheless, she pushed that trepidation down in hopes that the universe would instead be kind, swinging to her heart’s allowance, jumping in accordance, and touching down upon the cliff as a gentle grip wrapped around her forearm to steady her.

If the universe wasn’t kind, Bayley had it covered.

There, she gave her a shaky smile and gingerly held onto the brunette’s shoulder for reinforced steadiness while she caught her breath, Bayley staring at her in complete captivation and concern, ultimately spoken via a gentle _“You good?”_

Sasha could only nod, at the time, but she wishes she could’ve thanked her ━ even _hugged_ her. That’s Bayley’s specialty, right? She couldn’t force herself to do either, though, not when her bones felt like they were vibrating within their walls, not when her heart was taking temporary refuge in her throat.

She swallows hard, the same soreness reappearing until she forces it away to snap back into the conversation.

“I knew I hired you for a reason greater than navigation and drivin’,” the treasure hunter compliments Bayley, moving past Charlotte who turns her head this way and that, and Sasha who exhales with crossed arms before speaking up.

“Speaking of navigating…” the mercenary drawls as Becky checks out the rock where the path’s fresh beginning lies atop. “Do you have any idea where we’re going? Where this is taking us?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” there’s a lack of reassurance in the way she says it, though it’s matched by a somewhat-bashful grin that no one can see since her back is turned. “All I know is that we’re following the path,” Becky twists so she can face them, now pointing upwards in a stiff gesture. “Next stop…”

“Onward and upward,” Sasha’s tone is dull, sighed out as she bows her head and looks at her feet momentarily, though her chin lifts when Bayley speaks with a playfulness toward Becky ━ something that causes the mercenary to full-on smile in admiration.   

“I can go first,” it’s smoothly said as she approaches the treasure hunter, smirking devilishly while leaning closer ━ something _so_ unlike Bayley until this point in time. “If you learn better by example, that is.”

The attempt is noble and, if you were to ask Becky, she’d admit that she was quite stunned by the silky words, the sudden switch in personality coming from someone so bubbly, so optimistic, until transitioned into a suave-talker with dares strewn throughout her language. Interesting technique, Becky decides, but she gives her a lighthearted eye-roll once she recovers.

“Ha-ha,” the taunt gets a flat reaction, flashing her a grin and another chuckle that Bayley mirrors, but it’s Sasha’s snicker and entertainment regarding the brunette’s change in attitude that harbors the majority of Becky’s attention ━ an attention that the mercenary forces to flatline, on sight.

Becky only transfers her entertainment from a grin to a newer, _“I caught you”_ type of smirk, but even that short wave of general leisure is brought to a halt when she comes face to face with a stoic Charlotte. Up until now, as they’ve been stagnant on the rock and gathering their bearings before moving on, Becky has nearly forgotten about the tall blonde waiting feet away, hoping their time here is almost up. Okay, so she hadn’t _forgotten_ about her ━ nowadays, or _any_ day, that’s next to impossible ━ but Charlotte hasn’t given them a measly drop of enthusiasm or desire to take part in their banter. Hell, even Sasha is trying to get in on it, now. Anything to keep the knowledge of the island’s vacancy away from their brains.

But, as Becky goes toe to toe with Charlotte who, as per usual, turns her cheek the other way, she’s reminded that the historian likely won’t jump to converse with them anytime soon ━ at least not until the redhead dares to speak up and clear the air, starting with that godforsaken “tequila” comment.

Becky sighs, then peeks over her shoulder at Sasha and Bayley, repeating some of the mercenary's recent words:

“Onward and upward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is well.
> 
> Just forewarning that, as expected, my thought process has slowed down tremendously. I still have a ton of stuff to sift through for the story, and it's been difficult because I've been needing an assload of feedback but I feel like I'm not getting it from where I should be. But, nonetheless, your reviews help me, so just... comment your little hearts out.
> 
> From now on, I'll be updating maybe slowly (actually, I still have the next chapter completely good to go, and then after that I'll get chintzy, sadly), but I won't abandon the world. I know there are a handful of you invested in the story, and so am I. I never mean to sound so dreadful, I promise. Maybe it's winter sending me through a rough writing patch, I don't know. Just sucks to feel like your writing is majorly overlooked, ya know?
> 
> But thank y'all for being so kind when you do comment! Hopefully I can soon provide some optimism.


	11. Chapter 11

SUN., 1:11 P.M.

* * *

After her last-spoken, sighed-out proclamation of _“Onward and upward,”_ their ascent to the top of the muddy hill is shorter than it appeared at face value, consisting of three steps using more rocky handholds until they’ve successfully cleared another wall.

Becky goes first, reaching the top and immaturely sticking her tongue out at Bayley who snickers, Sasha following the redhead, then their driver, and, lastly, the historian. It isn’t until they’re all clumped together, some shoulders brushing, that they realize they’ve made it to the tallest peak of the mountain, the view overlooking the expansive, teal sea and everything the remaining island has to offer. Its greens, consistently scattered, multi-color flowers, the varying types of trees, ferns, shrubbery, those reddened birds from earlier, all creating a tropical vibe as they hear chirping of larger birds nearby, rustling, all while feeling the breeze waft through their hair.

It’s ethereal, Becky decides, like this pirate-invaded and patented island is undeserving of something so sunkissed, so sweet and graceful. To describe it with such undermined feeling, that is.

Even the mist that clouds around them until it disperses in the blink of an eye simply causes amazement that courses through the veins of each of the four women, shaken by how magnificent a vacant, unknown-to-many island can possibly be. Although the sun has predominantly retreated to behind a wall of clouds in the sky, nothing harms the postcard-esque view as they stand together, now watching a school of birds vacate the tower where they departed from about an hour ago. Even beyond that structure, the trees sway as a bigger gust of wind weaves through the thick vegetation. All visible, and unobstructed.

Much to Becky’s surprise ━ her judgement coming from earlier encounters ━ even Sasha stops to momentarily admire the scenery and accept what it has to offer: its relaxing elements, like the sight, sounds, every sort of perception imaginable. The mercenary’s eyes close and chin tilts an inch upward, taking in a deep breath and reveling in the breeze, the faint moisture that flickers across her cheekbones as she levels her adrenaline with an unseen comfort. But it’s a brief span of indulging that’s over as quick as Becky’s surprise came, and Sasha’s lips seal once she forces her eyes open and looks away, down to the ground where the toes of her boots shift against the thin layer of pure, brown mud.

Although a few seconds of leisure are nice and they’ve never necessarily harmed anyone ━ although it’s a much-needed break from the climbing, the jumping, the _heights_ ━ she continues to harbor a strange, off-putting bitterness in the pit of her stomach, something that attacks her senses and her diligence, crippling them. A paranoia, maybe. An _irrational_ paranoia, _probably._ No matter how irrational, however, long gone is the welcoming, open-armed feeling from only seconds ago, replaced by an inkling that they’re growing closer to a territory that causes their previous risks and conquered obstacles ━ that rockfall where she saved Becky’s limbs ━ to pale in comparison.

The scenery is just too good to be true, and, according to Becky’s words from when they sat around the crackling fire back on the mainland, that means it is. That means they should remain watchful, and, as their mercenary, their protector, their _bodyguard,_ that means she should be on keen lookout. Above anyone, she should keep her eyes peeled.

It’s in her blood, after all.

She glances at Bayley for a split second, nervously vacating the acute eye contact they make and forcibly turning around as if the self-provided tension _didn’t_ just get to her within a mere tick of the clock.

Turns out, vacating that eye contact didn’t save her from an overwhelming amount of intimidation, in the end, because it only intensifies when she spins to come face to face with another tower, its existence unbeknownst ━ _ignored,_ more like ━ to the group before climbing to this viewpoint. Similar to the first tower, this one additionally resembles a crumbled lighthouse, though the structure looming in front of her makes the last look nearly intact, unscathed by the world’s elements as it’s ruined on each side and appearing like a wilted, rotted tree-trunk. Wooden boards line its sides, causing Sasha’s forehead to crease in confusion; the planks seem like reinforcements, being the same as the horizontal planks from within the previous tower, however these are stuck to the outside walls like misplaced crutches, or a makeshift ladder. Quite frankly, these boards wouldn’t reinforce a damn thing, so their purpose is initially missed until she comes to a begrudging conclusion with slumping shoulders.

“I assume we’re climbing this,” Sasha summarizes with a flattened, unamused demeanor as Becky twists to see what she’s talking about, along with Charlotte and Bayley who hardly noticed the structure prior as their focus immediately zoomed toward the scenery.

To be fair, even if they had turned their heads in the direction of the tower, its majority is tucked behind a large stack of boulder, disguised and camouflaged against its similar color but opposing texture.

“Put a lid on all that enthusiasm, lass,” the treasure hunter’s eyes bug with the sarcasm, Sasha ignoring it. “I’ll take this one first,” she then turns to the others with one hand hovering over the first slab of wood, splintered and greying. “I don’t need any of you crashing through the ceiling if it’s not supported.”

For a beat, Becky’s line of sight ties completely with Charlotte’s, intentionally yet also partly not, but the tall blonde turns away instantly, as if it burns or pierces through her chest. Becky feels it, too.

Although lighthearted and so, _so_ simplistic, so basic and natural, borderline innocent, Charlotte can’t allow herself to slip into that silent conversation ━ not now, and maybe not ever. She meant it when she touched upon the idea that Becky takes too many risks on her own, whether or not it’s to protect those around her ━ those she holds near and dear, and Charlotte _knows_ that’s why she does it. Charlotte knows what Becky’s intentions are when it comes to putting her own well-being on the line before anyone else’s, selling herself out before anyone else. She knows her heart is golden, and, in a separate light, Charlotte can admire that nobility ━ as she’s said endlessly.

Shit, that nobility even, admittedly, makes her smile and feel a warmth she’s tried time and time again to escape ━ even as they weren’t talking for years. She just always knew, somewhere, somehow, that Becky remained giving everything her all while accepting nothing less, and _never_ sacrificing someone else to do it. That thought, alone, was enough to keep Charlotte awake countless nights, and, on occasion, she’d speak to herself while whispering, _“Just… please… be safe,”_ at the ceiling above her.

_“Wherever you are, be safe.”_

Because Becky should know by now that protection between them needs to be mutual ━ between Becky and _whoever_ she works with. In fact, it’s one issue that they’re never going to solve if the redhead doesn’t allow it, or open her eyes to Charlotte’s perspective. That’s the main reason the historian has never shoved her walls down, and the reason she’ll never hush the voices in her head screaming for her to stay careful. It’s the root of their various problems. It’s what Charlotte refuses to let go of. All this time, Becky has wanted to protect her. She’s wanted to erase the historian’s fears and she’s wanted to ease her tension, keep her content, in the proper headspace. All this time, she’s been putting on this facade of selflessness, this false bravado, and, again, Charlotte can admire that.

But it doesn’t erase the fact that it’s still detrimental. It doesn’t erase the fact that it’s still unhealthy. Unequal. Unbelievable. Insufferable.  _Disappointing._

What’s the use in protecting someone if that someone is just bound to worry about _your_ well-being? As far as Charlotte is concerned, even if they’re not currently on the same page, and even if they still have a lot to mend from their past, this goes both ways. Becky may be some all-star treasure hunter with endless, frivolous accounts under her belt, various self-achievements and the most golden memories worth millions, but that doesn’t mean she’s invincible or indestructible, or any less human. That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be taken care of, as well.

Unfortunately, her lack of acceptance and allowance when it comes to that care is just… _rejection,_ and that rejection steamrolls over Charlotte’s existence whenever Becky turns her cheek away from someone going before her solely because she thinks she knows better. Solely because she thinks she’s more expendable than the rest of them. It’s heartbreaking.

“Charlotte?”

Her chin tilts upward at the sound of Bayley’s voice, her spur-the-moment trance gone with the wind. The historian remains lingering at the base of the tower while everyone else stands up top, save Bayley who partially leans over to see why the last member of their group is nowhere to be found. It earns a hard, stunned blink from Charlotte who doesn’t know how much time she’d lost while zoned out, but she manages to force out a hoarse, weak “Yeah, sorry” before steadily placing her palms on split wood.

It’s a slow yet uneventful ━ in the best way ━ climb to the roof, head peering over the edging to see that it’s just a plain, flat and gravel-covered surface with a major lack of weathering which ultimately surprises her. From the looks of it, from the ground, more than half of the roof should be buckled or at least threatening to do so under the weight of more than three palm leaves, but, in actuality, it’s near-completely untainted. Even the stubby ring around the edges is intact, only sporting small, triangle-shaped chips every now and then, like someone took a basic art chisel and tapped at the structure for a second or two before scramming from the premises.

The only imperfection she sees is a lone, horizontal beam that sticks out from the center of the roof and hangs over one side, pointing in the direction of a lengthy mudslide ━ only meaning one thing, and Charlotte wishes to rub her eyes in mounting exhaustion.

_Great._

“Okay, it looks like this will be a one-and-done jump,” Becky’s words are rough as she looks down the mudslide, noting the long stretch of bushy grass at the landing of it, followed by some version of a sinkhole. “Just jump, slide with _any_ control you can muster, and brace yourself for solid ground. Don’t twist your ankle,” her instructions are clear, tailed by an additional comment that comes with a grimace. “Trust me, I’ve done it.”

An array of expressions is received at the information; Sasha raises her eyebrows as if to say “Believable,” Bayley grimaces with secondhand regret, and Charlotte purses her lips with no hidden snark behind stoic features ━ just acceptance. It’s enough of a response to end her most recent lecture, Becky nodding to herself, then facing the beam.

Her cheeks puff out when she exhales, creasing her forehead in focus and keeping her posture square to the plank with her left foot stationed slightly ahead of her right. With calculation of the rift between the beam’s end and the mudslide’s beginning in mind, she knows that getting a running start is her best bet in being consistent and staying un-afflicted by the idea of coming up short, so she assumes a proper stance before readying herself further. Meanwhile, she's given patience by her team who focuses in their own right, watching her every move despite the task appearing simple. Looks can be deceiving, and that’s the very first lesson you learn in the face of plausible danger.

Twenty seconds pass. Twenty more seconds pass before Becky takes a deep breath and begins to run with balance, pushing her foot against the tip of the thick, wooden slab of wood and leaping across the empty air. When she touches down, she’s immediately sliding along a slippery, muddy hill. Its contents fling against her skin, a drop or two splattering against her cheeks while her gloves become lathered in the substance, using her hands to steer her around a single rock disrupting the slide. Her frame is slightly turned, left leg bent while straightening her right in order to accurately brace herself for the fast sliding to stop rather abruptly.

This time, it’s only ten seconds until she’s accomplished the task at hand ━ albeit she’s a mess once she accomplishes it. Her camouflage pants are practically covered in mud, patted against the crevices and folds amongst the fabric and also in the creases of her tactical vest. Her backpack is filthy, as well. Even through her half-assed attempts to wipe the mud away, it only seems to collect more, flicking onto her bare skin while she quietly growls at it and ignores the rest of her team flying down the hill behind her ━ especially Bayley who is having the time of her life.

In Becky’s opinion ━ now shared by most of her crew ━ sliding along pudding-like mud is one of the worst parts of the job, main point being that you don’t know how long you’ll be in the wild wearing such filthy, wet clothes clinging to your body with their new weight. And, once it dries, it’s even worse, cracking as you move until it flakes off and gets into the air, like dust. Occasionally, it even smells. Often times, you have to wonder if it’s been polluted with animal droppings. With that said, most of those times, you have to push that wonder away if you’d rather cling to the last drop of sanity you have left. Sometimes, it doesn’t work, anyway, but at least you tried.

If there’s one thing she wishes she didn’t have to sacrifice for this type of life, it’s the luxury of hygiene, and muddy hills don’t even scratch the surface of that notion.

Her nose scrunches as she shudders, finishing her short ━ and quite meaningless ━ round of cleaning by brushing her gloves together and walking over to the cusp of the giant hole. What she sees within stuns her, though, and it’s something she hadn’t been expecting ━ but, man, is it a nice surprise.

Shuffling closer to the edge lined with weeds poking from leftover mud, tall statues gradually come into view ━ the term “tall” not doing them much justice. Roughly, they’re the height of standard telephone poles, and as thick as massive tree trunks. Looking closer, the statues are pirates ━ specific features amiss from the angle. Two of them hold onto stone spears, each wired in veiny pieces of moss that dangle into the gaping drop between them. Luckily, those spears appear seemingly strong enough to be grappled onto, neither one cracking in any spot, and, if Becky didn’t know any better, she’d be willing to bet that they were newly built. They’re in pristine condition, only shined by the air’s moisture and colored by those vines and clusters of moss.

Overall, the spears’ obvious reinforcement shines a light on their next move, how they’ll manage to repel down to the bottom of the hole. Evidently, those spears may be more useful than Avery intended, presumably based on the concept that this hole didn’t exist hundreds of years ago. Likely, this was a stone roof of some kind, like a concrete lid that kept the statues settled within a below-ground temple, and perhaps the toppled pillars they passed not too long ago served as the initial entrance. Everything changes with time. Fortunately, those two, sturdy spears aren’t included in “everything” this time, and it’s the only card they have to play for slinking down to the base of the statues.

The only problem lies within the fact that their grapples won’t reach from where she currently waits around ━ where, behind her, they attempt the same, ill-advised tactic of cleaning themselves ━ and, unfortunately, the second mudslide to her left is proving to be a one-way ticket to their destination. Against her better judgement, on the other hand, that means they’ll have to act on rapid instinct while sliding, needing to time their grapple-throw accordingly to wrap around the spear as they slide down a speedy hill of mud. Now, her emphasis on the “no do-over” clause when discussing rope-swinging appears even more pertinent to _this_ scenario.

Talk about a true test of skill.

Without warning, Becky turns to them in a swift motion, already smirking to ease a bit of the immediate tension once she asks, “Are you ready for your next, big jump?” as if they have much of a choice.

During the resounding silence full of deadpanned stares at her misplaced comedy, Becky straightens her back and puffs out her cheeks in a breath, like she’s bound to own up to something she doesn’t necessarily want to. Actually, more like she’s bound to downplay something that’s naturally epic, like she’s attempting to sell something ridiculous with her eyes looking down through the gaping hole in the Earth.

“I won’t lie…” her words are careful, dragged out, “this one’s going to go fast. We’re going to be using grapples for it. Hopefully you’ve had ‘em packed.”

The lack of panic eases her un-displayed worry, each of the women pulling their respective backpacks from their shoulders, careful not to put the satchels down into the mud that’s splattered and staining the compact shelf of grass where they stand. As they prepare, Becky opts to continue with her explanation.

“Look for grapples _before_ you slide, and even _when_ you slide. Do _not_ be afraid to over-use them. Chances are we’ll find multiple chasms around,” Bayley is first to glance upward while zipping her backpack closed, silver hook grasped in her glove. “This place is old enough, and it’s likely waiting for a reason to cave in. Got it?”

The brunette gets the brunt of her expectations, Bayley blinking and nodding while absentmindedly rubbing her thumb along the metallic material of the foreign instrument. Scratch that: Bayley recalls using a similar grapple multiple times before, accompanying her father on a work trip in the midsection of Canada as they had some downtime and learned how to hike properly. Something tells her that this will be more tremendous, though, and more skill-oriented. Becky’s words from thirty minutes prior are whispered in her ear again:

_“You only have one chance at it sometimes, and it can be… unforgiving. Rock doesn’t leave you much room for mistakes.”_

She assumes that it’s the same for grappling, and it causes her stomach to twist in nerves despite however many times she reminds herself to ignore the impending fear. Just focus, she reminds herself. Focus and breathe.

“To grapple, hold the end like this but leave some slack,” a clear-cut example is shown, everyone paying attention with stone-like faces, “then you swing your arm so it’s able to hook onto whatever you’re aiming at. Don’t throw it _directly_ at whatever-it-is, though, or it won’t latch properly. You want to make sure it rounds the item and overlaps at least once, _fully,_ and anchors nicely.”

Again, no response. No one even bats an eyelash. This time, Becky isn’t sure if that’s a good reaction or not, so she chooses to demonstrate on a branch that’s overhanging from a fallen tree toward the left of the first mudslide. Her steps toward the miniature island where the limbs hang don’t stop before she’s already swinging the rope, drumming up some speed in a perfect form, lips sealed, and tossing it at the sturdiest branch.

“To make sure it’s secure, tug on it and listen.”

She gives the rope a solid pull, watching the branch bend without giving them any sort of crack or break.

“If it bends a bit, it’s safe,” with her hands still firmly grasping the rope, she turns her head to look at them. “If it cracks, even a tiny bit, it’s not. It’s a little self-explanatory, I’d say,” the following chuckle is breathy, but it’s muted by Bayley’s apprehension.

“What happens when you have to grapple on the run and can’t check how secure it is?” while Becky removes her hook from the demonstration branch, the redhead makes a face at the question ━ not to mention the obvious waver in their driver’s voice regarding what the answer may be.

She puts her hands on her hips, admitting the risk, “Then you take a chance with hopes you’ll still be running after the swing.”

“That’s comforting,” Bayley’s mouth tightens into a sour grin.

The treasure hunter’s guilt attacks quickly. She knew, back on the mainland, that she should’ve given them a trial run, or at least an in-class type of lesson including the ins and outs of how they’ll manage to work around, over, between, below obstacles. Back in her mind, she knew that it’d be best to give them a quick rundown, or quiz them on what they’d do if faced in a certain situation ━ Bayley, in particular, as she’s the least bit savvy in the world of treasure hunting. Becky is sure that one instance of “real camping” won’t live up to anywhere near what they’ll be encountering here ━ or what they’ve already encountered thus far. She’s sure that Bayley is already intimidated, and she’s sure that even Bayley wishes that she’d had the chance to practice the lengths in a no-risk setting. Then again, you don’t know what you’re in for until you’re experiencing it.

Nevertheless, Becky swallows hard and her following smile is impish, regretful and apologetic as she offers the consolation, “You can practice on the tree, first, if you’d like.”

Really, her prime focus was on Bayley and the option was solely directed at the brunette who’s never looked such a slide, jump, grapple, and repel in the eye before now, but, when Sasha pushes them aside with a sudden “I’d rather just get this over with,” Becky frowns.

It’s not like she’s running to stop the mercenary from making the choice, however. Sasha’s attitude has gone from quiet, to snide, to bearable, and now to sketchy. Becky noticed it once she swung ━ and fell ━ across the rift where Bayley helped her up, after the brunette had helped Sasha, herself, to her feet. The purple-haired woman’s features have paled, also hardened in a way that notifies Becky of her serious change in demeanor. Partly, it’s worrisome, but it’s not in Sasha’s paygrade to stay open with them, so Becky doesn’t ask. She never asks ━ even less so in situations where it’s imperative that they stay focused, like now when Sasha stands at the very edge of the second mudslide. Again, Becky gives her as much time as she needs to gather those rampant thoughts and terrorization, knowing that, even for a mercenary, this may be a bit much.

Even for _herself,_ it’s a bit much.

Meanwhile, Sasha’s eyes detail the bumps and majorly slick areas of the muddy texture, then zone in on the pit that invites her at the bottom. She stands there, internally shaking and bracing herself for the inertia of the slippery hill’s slope to send her down in the blink of an eye, all while aiming to grapple one of the two, stone spears.

Grappling, alone, isn’t her strong suit, and Sasha dreads the following events she needs to undertake. Sure, she’s used a similar hook in previous cases, even in her most recent venture ━ though not too recent ━ when she’d been running through a jungle in France for two days. It’s where she learned how to angle the throw properly, how hard to lob it, and how to jump with a firm hold when you have little to no time to think. She’d learned it the hard way, too, at one point mistiming a jump and inadvertently falling straight to the ground where she bent her wrist backward beneath her torso.

Not her finest moment, and there’s a scar to prove it.

One thing came out of it, though, and that’s the desire to make it up to herself. The _need_ to make it up to herself.

So, keeping that in mind and grasping onto that determination for dear life, Sasha takes a breath and jumps down the mudslide, copying Becky’s form from earlier with one leg bent and the other braced for impact against nothing at the end of the slope.

She’s watched by everyone else, three pairs of concerned eyes keeping up with the way she waits until the midpoint of the slide to toss her grapple onto the spear, three, full loops around and getting a smile from Becky. They listen to a gasped-out, teeth-gritting “Fuck” once her body is partially swinging forward, toes of her boots pinching the rope between each other, bow-legged but firmly in place high above the ground.

Sasha exhales and inhales in rhythm but flat-out refuses to glance downward, eyes sealed shut with her grip loosening little by little to lower herself further into the rift. The sound of her heartbeat thumps in her ears, head gradually starting to spin as she pleads with herself to focus on anything other than the space between her and the stone floor. She can’t even find the strength to pay attention to the giant statue that she becomes eye level with, shaking her head and continuously sliding down the rope with friction periodically building until she lets go again.

The only noise that tunes her back into the world around her is Becky coaching Bayley somewhere above, then, before she knows it, the brunette in mention is dangling alongside her, even reaching the ground before she does ━ all with a smile and a prideful, bellowed “Hell yeah!” that Sasha wishes she could find the strength to enjoy.

Instead, this time, Sasha can’t help but appear far past disheveled by what she just conquered ━ if that’s an accurate word at all, since it doesn’t seem as such when one of her knees buckles as her feet touch the damp stone splattered with leftover mud. She has to gasp in a breath, as well, mostly against her will and strength, and it’s something that Bayley catches. The brunette’s enthusiasm is instantly lost, frown replacing her smile as she gingerly reaches out to help Sasha without being in time to touch her fingertips to the other woman’s shoulder. She tilts her head the side with her ever-growing frown, ready to question Sasha who stands upright yet she’s ignored, either way, when the mercenary walks away and hunches over against a nearby, collapsed pillar. Bayley bows her head.

Above them, Charlotte is left standing beside Becky who glances to the ground to make sure they’re safely at the bottom, getting confirmation when she sees Bayley walking around. A nod and a hum are given to herself before turning to the blonde without an ounce of knowledge when it comes to what to say.

Part of her strives to speak up, to stop leaving things unspoken between them when there’s so much they have to make up for, and doing it while they’re alone seems like their best bet. But it’s harder than it looks when her tongue won’t move the way she wants it to, when the words won’t form in a certain order or become a coherent thought. It’s even worse when she knows that Charlotte likely won’t listen to anything she says, anyway, and that’s not a jab at the historian as much as it is the cold, hard truth. It’s going to take a lot more than a simple “I’m sorry” to make up for what’s happened. Even things she didn’t intend to afflict on them, in the long run, have taken a serious toll. Silence isn’t always the best bandage for what’s been broken. Sometimes, it only induces the already-stinging pain. Maybe Becky has wasted too much time staying silent, and maybe the window of opportunity has already slammed shut and locked.

But then she’s surprised. Because, for the first time in a good while, Charlotte stares at Becky equally as much, the slightest pout on the blonde’s face, and it makes the treasure hunter’s heart thump with sadness. She wishes she could apologize with that sole “I’m sorry” that she knows won’t fix a goddamn thing, first for the comment she made earlier about Charlotte’s sense of fun, and then for everything else. There’s certainly a long list of things she should use that stupid, barren “I’m sorry” for, and she knows that, if she wants to move past this silent-treatment type of relationship they have going on, she’ll have to make her sincerity known ━ one way or another. Her eyes can’t do the talking forever, the explaining and the caring, and she’s not even sure that Charlotte can pick up on the subtle hint of heavy, regretful blue remorse in a brown gaze. She’s not even sure that Charlotte _wants_ to.

Still, she wishes she could get a smile from the historian. Just the twitch of her lips as she tries to hide it. Just the common reaction she used to get, derived from an immature, out-of-nowhere remark. Or, even more so, just Charlotte’s natural response to something unbelievably light-hearted or playful that Becky, initially, gave herself a mental facepalm for being so untactful. All in all, she wishes they could go back.

So, in a last-ditch effort, Becky bounces her eyebrows in a way that used to make the historian laugh, like on their first night of adventuring together when she retold an old, “newbie treasure hunter” story ━ a bit exaggerated, for good effect ━ and punctuated it with the cocky, overkill expression. Her dramatics, alone, resulted in a laugh from Charlotte, even a faint shade of blush as they sat with a fire between them.

Here, as Becky gives her the same look, Charlotte doesn’t react. She doesn’t even blink, and that twitch of her lips doesn’t surface. Nothing comes. Instead, Charlotte turns her cheek a bit forcefully, stares down the mudslide as if it’s nothing, and, without a word, takes her turn at making it safely to the ground.

At this point, Becky wonders if the blonde would rather take a chance at throwing herself into the lion’s den above even attempting to bridge things between them. Again, she can’t blame her.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” the practiced apology falls from her lips without being able to stop it, bowing her head and rubbing her tongue along her teeth with disdain for herself and the idea of being too stupid to speak the words directly to whom they’re intended for.

That self-targeted loathing doesn’t last long ━ or it at least retreats to beneath the surface of her skin, hidden behind her resumed, determined posture when she rolls her shoulders. She additionally ignores the nagging sensation that this tactic of brushing aside her solemn emotions has become a pattern that’s reappeared at random throughout the trip so far. By all means, it’ll likely strengthen as they get deeper into the expedition, and it’s yet another thing that Becky tries to push aside while slamming her eyes shut and bearing her teeth.

“Focus,” she tells herself lowly enough so no one will hear from below. “Keep focusing.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes for the Irish woman to whip up a batch of makeshift encouragement for the leap, and that’s all it takes to succeed at completing the desired objective ━ unlike when she swung to the cliff earlier and accidentally launched herself at the incorrect interval. With a clear mind, this time around she’s able to grapple onto the spear without breaking a sweat while midway down the mudslide, pulling some of the thick, slime-like substance down into the crater with her as she’s lowered to the ground. Her gloves give off a mild zipping sound that’s partly echoed until the perimeter below widens, only bouncing off the multiple, pirate statues that capture Becky’s awe while repelling. At the same time, her eyes adjust to the newfound darkness once the light from above becomes slim to none, and she looks down to study the rest of her crew while finally touching her toes to the foreign stone.

Unlike minutes ago, Sasha is standing upright and fully recovered ━ as far as they know ━ whereas Bayley remains side-eyeing the mercenary, Charlotte taking the pause in action to fasten the grapple back to her belt with her tongue absentmindedly poking out from between her lips. Against her better judgement, Becky smiles, but she swallows hard to push the emotion down; it’s too hot and cold between them. Instead, she chooses to zone in on Bayley’s obvious concern, tension between her and Sasha brewing but not derived from any level of malice. In reality, Becky can practically see the brunette’s heart clenching as her shiny eyes continuously dart back to the mercenary, appearing as though she’s trying to stop herself from staring but having a hard time.

Becky sighs on her behalf, and then works to lighten the mood as much as she can ━ not to say it’s a great deal since, ironically enough, she’s a major reason why everything has been so constricted.

It’s hard to play peacekeeper when you’re the creator of chaos.

In spite of that, Becky gives it her best shot.

“I must be a good teacher,” she starts with a joking, cocky grin. “You all _latched_ onto the technique quite quickly,” the pun is given her own smirk, but Sasha’s nostrils flare in annoyance ━ though, again, much to Becky’s surprise, she detects a light nature to it.

It’s new.

 _“Or_ this isn’t our first rodeo but we just let you lecture us so you’d get it out of your system,” it’s refuted pointedly, with a tight-lipped smile and beady eyes, though Becky doesn’t have time to focus on it much with her agape mouth once she hears Charlotte snort at the mercenary’s no-tact rebuttal.

Becky turns to the source of the sound, instantly watching Charlotte cross her arms and glance down at her feet as if she hadn’t properly allowed the reaction to be heard ━ as if she’s cursing the world for erasing her _own_ tact.

Even so, the redhead’s mouth hangs open a fraction, dumbfounded and floored by the comment without having the idea of where to start scraping together a snappy comeback. Sasha looks triumphant, too.

She seals her lips, in the end, muttering, “Okay, I see how it is,” with defeat.

Truly, there’s an unknowingness that sprouts within her throat, not able to understand if she’s genuinely upset by the comment, jealous that Sasha earned a reaction from Charlotte, or if her body is merely surprised that the mercenary got the upper hand so swiftly, so without warning, that she’s stumped. But there’s no time to gather a drip of comprehension, anyway, when their banter is interrupted by a soft “Woah” coming from Bayley, each one of them twisting their bodies in sync to see what she’s looking at.

Before them are multiple, high-arched entrances, all made up of dark stone covered in an orange, watery substance, moss, and clumps of dirt. It’s all aged to perfection, appearing gorgeous, if the architecture and unbelievably sized statues weren’t enough of their own magnificence, their own splendor. The statues stand between each archway, feet constructed upon pillar-like pedestals, and each tall body shaped into a pirate like presumed from above. Some of them have the cliché, three-pointed hats and long trench coats, hands on their hips in a broad stance, while one is bald with a shaped, pointed beard, his hand pressed to his chest like he’s reciting a pledge.

It’s absolutely astounding, and Bayley remains standing there with her jaw slack, speechless. Now, it seems they’ve stumbled into a new world, repelled down into the culmination of beauty, and it’s something she wouldn’t mind becoming accustomed to. Even Charlotte and Sasha react with likewise expressions and engrossed personas, the blonde’s eyes speaking for themselves when they disclose she’s witnessing something hardly anyone ever has before. History, she thinks.

Becky, herself, smiles big with an airy half-chuckle, half-gasp coming out, completely overtaken with her thoughts held captive by the essence before her. They may not have been welcomed to the island with a giant, neon sign, but _this?_

This is what it’s all about.

She sizes up the center statue with two other pirates on each side of the stone man, his hand on his hips with a cane-looking object holding his stance with power. Immediately, she knows she’s staring into the cold eyes of Captain Henry Avery, himself, and this may very well be the resting place of his infamous treasure. This may very well be what they came for, and the red _“X”_ at the end of their metaphorical map. This may very well earn her sleep back, her happiness, her self-given forgiveness, her good graces with Paige who watches from the clouds. Her _importance._

If that’s the case, inside, they’ll certainly meet bigger obstacles, further tests to prove worthy against cunning, greedy-in-their-own-right pirates, and, truly, the likelihood of being tasked so-dangerously is enough to make her hesitate where she stands. Against the statutes’ beauty, the various archways that they face, what lies inside could perhaps leave an ugly stain on their memories. And she knows that she’s not the only individual with an acute sense of apprehension about it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Sasha swallowing hard while looking up at the statues, all while Bayley nearly spins in place like she had when they first arrived on the island. Charlotte, too, remains silent, although the treasure hunter doesn’t even need to eye her to comprehend what her mind is honed in on: dangers, risks, traps, consequences, maybe even death.

In this line of duty, if Becky was the rough definition of optimism ━ forcibly so ━ then Charlotte would be her pessimism. In any other case, it’d be the opposite: the Irish woman never had a liking of such bright, radiant things, yet that’s all Charlotte ever spoke about, like the early mornings when Becky would find the historian admiring the dew coating the grass, the adolescent sun, the pink air, the gentle breeze. It always opposed what Becky was drawn to, like thieving pirates, olden-age murder stories, and otherwise-heartbreaking scenes. That is, until her perspective changed once she seriously came to know Charlotte who taught her how to shift her own thoughts, how to look at things differently and see beneath the surface of what they really are.

She likes to believe that’s why she’s recently became so drawn to staying in those run-down motels, the simplest places without needing flashy aesthetics. She likes to believe that’s why she’s started to admire cultures more than prior, not just using her minor, humanitarian studies to earn treasures. In total, she likes to believe that Charlotte made her into someone softer, more aware, even if it’s only visible to herself on the inside, and she likes to believe that the blonde is that piece of brightness to counter her darkness.

But, then again, it seems they’ve flipped as of late. Long gone is Charlotte’s sunny attitude, her warmth and reception, her will to change things between them, and her desire to shift Becky’s perspective. Now, she just accepts it. Now, she stays quiet, keeping to herself, and, now, she holds her admirations of the world close to her heart without letting the treasure hunter witness her happiness, her smiles, her blush, _her_ softness.

And it’s still all Becky’s fault.

Three minutes pass until she can’t stand boiling in her thoughts any longer. There’s a scratch against her skin and a stinging beneath, causing her to shudder as if a chill shot through her. She uses it as a reminder of what needs to be done, beginning to carefully walk back and forth while mentally sketching out their next path. In front of them, there’s a main entrance, beckoning for them to walk through the archway and into its tricky grasp where they’ll meet an inevitable fate of mental twists and turns ━ clues and games, like what she’s encountered in both Scotland and Madagascar. She has a hunch. She knows they’re there, lying in wait.

The entrance is massive, too, Avery not straying from showing off how extraordinary his wealth was, not to mention his Libertalia co-founders’ as four of them are molded into statues on either side of him with an appearance of equal importance. The archway’s opening is curved with a pointed top, beveled edges surrounding to give it multiple, regal facets covered in the same moss and vines that have stretched across the island.

To the left, there’s a smaller archway, at least being wider than the one they just barely made it through when the boards and loose rocks came toppling down, only thirty or so minutes prior. She can see into where it leads, a darker room with only a few samples of light that peep through cracks in the ceiling from where the statues are, creating a lightning-like streak on the floor and… a _table?_

Becky squints her eyes, challenging with a lack of emotion on her face as she moves toward the smaller archway without a word to the others. In fact, her motions are so silent, so sudden that Sasha shares a weirded-out glance with Bayley before keeping a close eye on the treasure hunter, and Charlotte drops her arms by her sides while following the rest of them.

At first, the Irish woman merely stands atop the threshold, directly below the curved stone as she hastily pulls off her right glove and then puts her fingertips to the cool marble. For the first time during the trip, she’s able to actually feel the crevices in its surface, the crumbling, dusty pieces like dried, chipping clay. Behind her, the movements are watched and studied, each woman wondering if she’s doing this observation for a specific reason, though they don’t move to interrupt because, quite frankly, this is the first instance where Becky has indulged in something with attributes so childlike yet innocent, and they’re just as curious.

A minute escapes them before she rubs her fingers together, a dark grey powder against her skin until her palm is laid flat against the archway’s right side so she can ease herself further into the room. There are two steps down to the floor, and she finds the table she caught a glimpse of from the comfort of the fleeting sunshine outside. As expected, it’s covered in dust that gathers heavily on her two fingers as she runs them along its surface, but it’s also housing a miniature model of a city, made out of the same stone that the walls are. She squats down to eye level to look at it, beginning to smile big as the others walk into the room, equally amazed yet astounded ━ _intimidated_ ━ by the surroundings.

Walls are covered in maps of various locations, old, Latin quotes, compact statues, while various tables and stools are scattered around the room. Some are flipped onto their heads or their sides, evident of disturbance through the years from either animals, or maybe even from back in the day when the place was abandoned. Still, it supports the idea of life being here in an earlier age, all things crafted with care and precision, especially the miniature city that Becky proceeds to view for a further handful of time. Its smaller-than-life village-looking homes, unquestionable pubs, a stable, and a jailhouse. Its town center, as well, and the roads branching off. So much detail in a four-foot by four-foot model.

Behind her, Charlotte stares at everything with her mouth partly open, wanting to reach out and touch some of the wall’s delicate statues before hesitating and withdrawing her hand back down to her side. She closes her lips after that, overly careful with where she steps and places her hands. Distrustful intuition, maybe; anything could be a trap.

Bayley, on the other side of the room, vividly studies the larger, detailed war graphs with _x_ ’s and arrows galore, Sasha by her side as the mercenary’s arms rest crossed in a less-impressed fashion but still overly enthralled in what she’s in the presence of. Even she can acknowledge that it’s history, no matter if this is business or not, no matter if she’s usually less inclined to fawn over artifacts and aged evidence of life.

Pushing herself back upright, the treasure hunter turns around to look at the next piece of antiquity, this being an actual, drawn-out city plan, as if they’d sketched it in imagery before turning it into a scale model nearby. The paper is dated, yellow and torn at the edges while set on a stone slab that’s slanted like an easel in the middle of the room. Similarly, Charlotte is intrigued by the blueprint, now standing beside Becky as if the movement was absentminded, unintended, and she’s only reminded that they’re this close once a brown gaze is boring into her temple and, then, they lock eyes for a solid second. Of course, the blonde breaks it and bows her head away from Becky, not wishing to give into those wistful features that speak volumes when the room is otherwise undisturbed.

The redhead doesn’t share the same sentiment, on the other hand; she’s sick of the undisturbed room, the silence, the solitary. She’s sick of pretending it’s not getting to her, or grinding against her nerves. Actually, she’s sick of pretending, _period._

“I know you don’t want to hear this from me, but we’re never going to get anything done if we ignore each other,” as she attempts to keep the conversation out of earshot from the others, her voice comes out hoarse and choked-up, not looking in Charlotte’s direction but instead opting to remain facing the blueprint.

It’s as if they’re two, awkward strangers admiring a single, red dot on a giant canvas at an art show, the air thick between them. But they’re not strangers, and that’s probably why it’s so much worse to act as such. Charlotte’s jaw tightens before she releases a breath.

“I’m not ignoring you,” the tall blonde does the same, not turning her head but keeping her posture stiff and in place, tone unwavering and keeping on an emotionless facade.

The conversation ends there. Charlotte hardly even blinks, or gives further acknowledgement to Becky’s attempts in getting something going for the sake of this trip. It causes the treasure hunter to lower her head with a deep breath through her nose, using her lone, naked hand to pick off some stray gravel previously embedded in her glove’s palm. Charlotte doesn’t notice ━ not until she side-eyes Becky once a new tactic is utilized.

“My comment about the tequila was uncalled for, and I apologize if I… _overstepped,”_ Becky’s apology is a single level above a whisper, tone rugged but sincere as she stares at Charlotte. “It wasn’t my intention to piss you off.”

There’s promise strewn throughout her claim, so much that Charlotte wishes she could accept the apology and begin to heal in endless regions of her heart, but, honestly, her words only cause a bigger pain to shoot through the blonde’s chest.

How can she not understand that Charlotte’s irritation and upsetedness is so far deep-rooted that a silly comment about tequila doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface? Sure, it pestered her like a gnat, but that annoyance was gone as quick as it came. That was a simple jab, something Charlotte would get over once her eyes were trailing along those first ruins where Becky almost lost her lower half under heavy rubble ━ A.K.A. what’s more so gnawing on her nerves, and what the apology should seriously be regarding.

All the blonde wants to hear is that Becky will be more careful. All she wants to know is that the treasure hunter will be safe and less frivolous about her decisions, that she’ll stop making jokes out of the worst scenarios, that she’ll show some sign that she’s not emotionally dead for _whatever_ reason. That she’ll put herself first, above the worth of Avery’s treasure because she’s irreplaceable despite whatever she may think.

And it truly fucking _sucks_ that Charlotte has to feel angry about her infinite care towards Becky, but that’s life. It’s never fair.

Nonetheless, this time, she gives Becky a tired half-chuckle, half-exhale, jaw tightened as she asks, _“That’s_ what you think I’m pissed off about?” because, as she’s told herself time and time again, the best defense is offense.

Becky tilts her head to the side in the slightest way while staring into a broken yet angry, blue-green gaze ━ the motion you take to when you think you’ve heard something but aren’t sure if that’s what someone legitimately said. It only reaffirms Charlotte’s assumption that the treasure hunter still isn’t aware of the real issue that’s adding an extra kick to their collective tension, and she wishes to roll her eyes and tell her to forget it. She wishes to walk away, to leave Becky wondering and calculating what she did wrong, to leave her _pining,_ and to leave her hoping that they’ll someday be able to mend whatever they are ━ just like how Charlotte felt when the redhead abandoned her on their last journey.

Talk about revenge.

A partial round of shyness comes from Becky as she soon evades Charlotte’s incredulous, unwavering stare that all but goes right through her, lips parting to say something with her forehead now creased until it’s all derailed when Sasha and Bayley are standing beside them.

“Pardon the interruption…” the mercenary begins. “This has been nice and all, but we’re not here to look at floor plans,” her eyes shift to the blueprints they’ve been lingering in front of, then back at them. “Can we move?”

With a shakier, sadder glance directed at Becky, Charlotte ducks her head and nods a fraction, muttering, “Yeah, please,” then following Sasha who is already walking across the dusty floor and through an adjacent hallway toward where the main archway lead from outside.

Bayley remains standing next to Becky who watches Charlotte leave with an intent, regretful focus, biting her inner cheek in the process and unknowingly presenting herself as crestfallen to the brunette who offers her a sad grin.

“She’ll come around,” although Bayley doesn’t know much about either of the women, she’s picked up on some tense emotions and thick vibes, being able to trace the history and know that there’s something different about how they operate as opposed to the rest of them.

At her words and misplaced positivity that Becky has valued throughout their short relationship, the treasure hunter forces an obviously fake smile and exhales through it, not turning to Bayley when she disagrees, “I’m not sure she should,” before leaving the other woman standing there.

Her clear, self-loathing nature gets a pair of slumped shoulders from Bayley, but she ends up following the redhead, regardless. She can see Sasha and Charlotte up ahead, the two not speaking but sticking close together, while Becky walks feet behind them and rubs the back of her neck in an awkward manner. Bayley gives the treasure hunter a second sad smile, though, this time, Becky can’t see.

Truly, she can tell Becky’s heart is in the right place and that she’s trying to juggle everything at once, like whatever relationship she has with Charlotte, her own thoughts, this expedition, and perhaps much more ━ perhaps stuff beneath the surface. She can tell that she’s trying her hardest, and she can also tell that Charlotte acknowledges it, that she sees and understands it. But, on the other hand and on a more aggravating note, it’s no secret that they’re both so stubborn, so determined to look away from their problems instead of confronting them head-on. This may be business, but what’s worth risking your own sanity and connections with loved ones over? To Bayley, nothing.

She treads behind the others, taking a left turn once they disappear behind a wall and, soon, they’re all collected in a stubby hallway with a single, locked door in front of them. On the opposite wall, there’s a green-tinted window near the top of it, light filtering through from behind a dramatic statue jutting out from inches below. The statue is of a hooded figure, something you’d see in a horror movie with little to no context behind it. The attitude it portrays is saddened, or dark and dreadful. Solemn, in a lesser aspect.

Their focus is primed on the large door in front of them, for the most part. It consists of heavier-looking boards, these untouched by the outside weather and keeping up a sturdy, thick appearance. Strips of gold line its border, and more statues are constructed into the wall on either side of its edging. Below their feet, the floor, itself, is made up of giant, square, stone slabs that are decorated with smooth carvings that don’t disrupt their balance.

Except for one.

Centered with the door, five feet from its threshold, is a single slab that differs from the rest. It’s adorned with Avery’s skull-and-crossbones sigil, the surrounding floor being darker in color with the single slab being an inch raised from everything else. It’s very obviously its own entity, and it’s very obviously begging for attention.

On sight, Becky can tell that it’s a button, and, judging by the lack of doorknob on the barrier before them, it’s the only key to get them through, the only way of making their way into whatever chamber lies inside.

She takes a breath as Bayley stands to her left, Sasha and Charlotte to her right, and, without a word, she lifts her foot with intent to step forward and onto the plate, but, suddenly, she’s hearing, “Woah, woah,” and being pulled back by a familiar, somewhat-gentle grip on her forearm.

“How do you know you should do that?” she turns to see Charlotte frowning before the woman’s grip is loosened and her arm sways back to her side.

“How do you know I shouldn't?” is all Becky can muster, not trying to be obnoxious but also not having a solid answer otherwise; the historian is fully aware what this type of lifestyle calls for, and how nothing is guaranteed, so she should expect it.

And Charlotte knows she shouldn’t still question it after their first experience, judging by the surrendering look that moves into her eye when she seals her lips shut and stares past Becky, directly at the gate. The redhead doesn’t deter from sighing, “We’re not going to get anywhere without taking risks,” in order to explain herself more to Charlotte without sounding so above it all, but, like before, the taller woman only keeps her lips sealed and hums in response.

Although Becky’s words weren’t mocking or bitter about it, and, truly, Charlotte knows she can’t argue because the treasure hunter has a point ━ even if the blonde wished she didn’t ━ it still doesn’t put her worries at ease, nor her doubts. Not when Becky is about to willingly step onto a pressure plate, being similar to the one that nearly send them through a wall or through a cracking floor, years ago. It’s unnerving, and only brings Charlotte back to the time that sent Becky into overdrive ━ another remembrance that causes her to wonder how the woman ever got past it, how she ever came to terms with pretending that she’s not scared, or even _terrified_ by what they may face in a few seconds. Pressure plates never equate to anything good, even if that horror is originally disguised by something shiny, or beautiful. In the end, all pressure plates lead to the same, detrimental fate.

But it still doesn’t diminish Becky’s point; she has to do this, and it’s the only way they’ll advance on the trail. The acknowledgment leaves a silence to fall over them.

Charlotte and the others stand back as Becky has a face off with the door. With a slowness to her motions, the Irish woman lowers her chin while lifting her leg, taking her time with stepping onto the pressure plate as her toe first leans into the ground, then her full foot, until she’s doing the same with the other half of her body. An unlocking sound clunks within the walls once her full body weight is standing upon the single square of stone, followed by a thumping raise of the door in front of them ━ until a bent part of its frame can’t make it past a skinnier segment of the track and it’s stuck in place.

Becky closes her eyes and sighs, shaking her head before murmuring, “Figures,” and approaching the door.

“Pinky, wanna help me again?” she looks at Sasha once standing at the door’s right side, the mercenary obliging and opposing Becky on its left corner.

“Hopefully _this one_ doesn’t buckle,” it comes out through a huff as they lift it together, the weight being lesser and easier to handle than the loose boards from earlier.

It’s raised over their heads fully, arms stretched out as the mechanism’s track provides them a minor amount of assistance with its chains still attempting to bring the door upward against its busted section. With ease and the act of only ducking a little bit, Charlotte and Bayley walk beneath the door before they’re standing in a dark room. Becky, again, allows Sasha to pass next, and the mercenary then turns around to hold the barrier upright as the treasure hunter sneaks inside.

There’s a bit of traction as the door stays up where it’s supposed to rest, noticed by Becky once Sasha lets go as they’re all inside the room, the wooden gate sticking to the top of its frame like it’s supposed to.

“I think it may be stay up now,” the treasure hunter announces with Sasha by her side, each of the two women facing the door with hands on their hips in a mimicked stance.

With that dreaded positivity out in the open, the heavy door makes a menacing, sliding sound and slams downward before any of them can reach and stop it, thumping against the ground as they jump, Charlotte and Bayley twisting to see what the hell happened. They approach when once they see remnants of dust floating around, missing the fact that, suddenly, lights have begun cascading into the darkened room.

Sasha and Becky stare at the sealed door, wide-eyed, with the mercenary holding her hands against her head with a dark laugh coming out, and the redhead puffs out her cheeks while drawling, “Or… _not.”_

“There better be another way out of here,” Charlotte intervenes with a monotonous tone. “There’s no pressure pad on this side.”

Unbeknownst to the rest of them, Bayley’s attention was only held by the slamming door for only a second or two, now focused elsewhere and left out of the conversation. Quite frankly, her presence is forgotten with the other three women studying the doorframe in hopes that they’ll find another way to escape when all is said and done in the room. Forgotten, at least, until another, quiet “Woah” is heard, and, this time, Sasha chuckles at the moderated, stunned enthusiasm.

“I’m starting to notice a trend with your vocabulary,” paired with a smile, the mercenary smoothly turns around, instantly stiffening with her steps becoming slower and slower until she’s standing beside Bayley and breathing out an equally bewildered, half-assed, “What…?”

Her befuddlement ends there, cut off by the unknown. Its truncation is so abrupt that it even gets the attention of Becky and Charlotte who finally notice that the space is lit up. Unlike when they first were sealed into the room, there’s now a whitish-yellow, glowing tint on the walls, and they twist their bodies slowly before stepping closer to the others with shared awe as Becky whispers, “‘Woah’ is right,” and the blonde’s mouth stays agape.

_For those who prove worthy..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sorry about the cliffhanger.
> 
> I'm happy to say that the story sort of... picks up (if that's a proper word) in the next chapter, as in... we're finally through all the pieces that seem to be an "introduction" kinda. Throughout the updates (including this one), I suppose I was (without awareness) trying to squeeze every ounce of description into it for those who haven't played the game. Since I ~have~ played it, sometimes I get my writing's imagery mixed up with the in-game chapter that it's based on. So, I can already see the image in my head and sometimes it's difficult to separate that from what I can see solely because of my writing, therefore I end up writing so, so much that it gets a little repetitive (but, hey, how many descriptions of plant life can you name?). If that makes any sense!
> 
> Anyway, as I was saying... I'm not losing that descriptive aspect moving forward (of course not) but finally we're in a realm where there's going to be more action, more risks, and everyone's going to be forced to deal with each other and whatever they're holding inside (even Bayley who isn't accustomed to this life). So, as I said on Tumblr: "...the upcoming chapters make the first ~11 chapters look like a long-ass uneventful introduction consisting of our beloved 4HW playing with kid gloves in a padded ball-pit." Take that for what you will. Slight hint: I can't fkn wait to get more dialogue into here -- especially in regards to Charlynch because, as much as I like a slowburn, something's gotta give.
> 
> Lastly, thank you for all your comments as I've been feeling down. Recently, I've gotten a boost from them, I switched around my writing area (I used to sit at my desk and now I'm chillin' on my bed), I've been listening to instrumental music (nerdy, I know), and I actually changed the font I type in (makes me wonder whose work I'm reading now!). Hopefully that gives me the drive to keep writing without feeling like I'm drying myself out. 12 is done, 13 is nearly complete, and 14 is going to be a blast. 
> 
> See ya soon!


	12. Chapter 12

SUN., 1:42 P.M.

* * *

The four women are lined in a straight row, all visibly enchanted by the sight before them with equally ajar mouths, unblinking eyes, slumped shoulders, and overall breathless expressions. The epitome of awe, the highest degree of wonderment.

They stand at the top of two, shallow stairs at the end of a short hallway leading from the bulky door through which they became locked in, now absorbing one of the island’s more complex structures. What they presume to be one of them, at least. Because, thinking back, it’s unlike anything they’ve stumbled upon until this juncture, the space almost wholly vacant of moss or vines, greens and other plant-life, with the sole exception being intermittent blades of grass poking through the floor’s crevices. Otherwise, it’s untouched by nature. Less worn-out than the hall they had exited, and even less dust-ridden than the room before that.

This is… _magnificent._

Laid out before them is a wide-open, circular room with a floor spanning roughly forty feet in diameter, also forty feet upward to the domed ceiling, window-less, and exit-less, with the only light surging through cut-out holes in the ceiling as they’re set in no precise pattern. No pattern they’re aware of, that is.

Among the higher walls at approximately twenty feet from the floor are three, horizontally stacked, whitish rings made of longer chunks of stone, also curved by a sculptor's talent as they circle the room. On the surface, they look like flattened train tracks, like clay roads if you were to drive sideways on the wall. Each ring, one by one, is adorned with two, large hexagon sections, resembling unfinished plaques while, between them, oval slabs decorated with beveled sun patterns reside. The most eye-capturing pieces amongst the rings, however, are multiple, giant orbs only a few sizes smaller than compact cars. Half of the orbs have one to three, black lines through them, dividing a shaded hemisphere and a lighter one, as another wears letters done in old English typography, all polished and marbled in a way that causes the treasure hunter to wonder if Avery had used a higher-quality rock for such objects. They’re even cradled upon the stone rings by detailed, curved holders, looking as though they’re ends of fancy, Roman columns used to create dramatic effect.

Becky notes how sporadic the different-shaped slabs of stone are, the rings, the orbs, the everything. She notes how random the patterns are, but also how “lights out” everything looks, as if she’d walked into a Broadway theater without any performances taking place, or practice, or… _vibrancy._ Everything appears cut-and-run, incomplete, aborted-in-progress. Her eyes then drift downward, mouth still opened but forehead gradually creasing in skepticism.

In the center of the room, directly above what appears to be a golden, pirate steering wheel attached to a triangular base, a telescope-like, cylindrical object protrudes down from the ceiling, as if you were to stand below it and look straight into space. Its size is a different story, on the other hand, the tube being so large that any of the women ━ maybe even two of them, at the same time ━ could army-crawl through it without feeling squished. On the exterior of the large telescope are golden, stumpy limbs, being raised craters and having no current use when they look like aimless blemishes on the major portion of the object. Like it’s all a golden, ornate tree trunk with thick branches that had been hacked off for lumber.

Becky looks closer, studying the new surroundings piece by piece in order to paint a vivid picture for later use ━ or perhaps just for memory. It’s not every day you see something like this.

Surrounding the ship wheel in the center of the room is a puddle-deep body of water, the pool circular to resemble a second ring that fits directly within the space’s overall shape, and the floor of that pool is a cobalt blue color, vivid in spots where those holes of light hit the bottom. The water doesn’t have allowance to touch the wheel’s base, however, as it’s built upon an ill-defined shape, reminding her of an island’s jagged outline ━ but not _this_ island, for sure. Perhaps part of Madagascar, or…

She breathes out when her thoughts begin to ram into each other, her trait of clear thinking driven off a cliff when all her eyes want to do is bask in the beautiful architecture of the current room.

Unnoticed until now were the beveled, diamond motifs upon the walls between unchipping, decorative columns set on thick, flat bases, and how those diamonds are unbelievably chiseled with precision and skill. The columns on either side of each diamond shoot upward until they split at the top then arch sideways together, though they aren’t used as doorways as much as they merely frame more, smooth stone behind them. The only archway that actually leads somewhere is the opening for a water wheel, opposite to where they stand still atop the brief staircase, and the wheel’s purpose remains a mystery to the four women. Though, truthfully, one could hazard a valiant guess that it has something to do with the ship wheel on that short plateau, and it’s something that Becky wishes she could continue to delay figuring out.

But she can’t. Not if she wants to move past whatever-the-hell this is, and not if she wants to take sharp, rushed aim at Avery’s treasure. This is a mere stepping-stone on his elongated path, whether or not it leads directly to the treasure or only points them in a new direction. God, she hopes it’s the first one; she’s had enough of this trail, enough of his games through multiple countries and climates, and enough of━

“What is this place?”

The ever-growing quietude is first broken by Bayley’s astonishment, and, when Becky turns to her, she can see the brunette’s eyes sparkling, enthralled, captivated, everything mystical, magical, and far in-between.

“I have no freaking idea,” Sasha muses without much thought put into her answer, nor does she put much thought into the step she moves to take before Becky catches her and gingerly lies her hand on the mercenary’s shoulder to halt her mild eagerness.

“Just… don’t touch anything yet,” the redhead’s warning is gentle, calm and knowing that everyone wants the chance to search the room further than from stewing in their thoughts in place atop the two stairs. “Let me go first.”

No one moves to argue. Their agreement from the prior night flows between them with Becky’s reminding eyes flickering to each woman; they stay true to their word of listening to instruction. After all, Becky is the only skilled treasure hunter here, surpassing Sasha’s subpar knowledge in being a right-hand man for these expeditions and Charlotte’s savviness in artifacts from a historical perspective. Only Becky knows how to calculate where to move, when to move, what to touch, what not to, how to handle various objects and situations, so forth. Sure, she may have trouble with her footing nowadays when it comes to climbing, crawling, and swinging, and everyone makes a mistake every once in a while ━ as exampled with Charlotte, years ago ━ but, as far as treasure hunting goes, she _is_ one of the best.

With that being said, Charlotte doesn’t shove her mental worry far back into her mind. Not yet, anyway. Instead, she remains silently focused on how Becky carefully steps down the two stairs until she’s standing upon the room’s main platform, all without straightforwardly protesting the notion of the redhead putting herself in harm’s way for their collective sake. She just truly hopes Becky understands that, if something goes amiss, she will not hesitate to run forward and drag her to the nearest, safest, most stable part of the temple while the others follow ━ agreement to listen or not. There are only so many heart-clenching images that Charlotte can bear, and the horrid, flash thought that shoots a pang of sourness into her throat ━ the thought of Becky, somehow, becoming Avery’s latest victim ━ is nowhere near something she’d be able to handle.

Becky hears her footsteps echo across the floor as she makes a slow, steady beeline for the ship wheel in the center of the room. It’s now that she gets a real comprehension of how empty the space is, how desolate and unfulfilled it feels, dusty like a basement hidden beneath crumbling boards with holes shot through, mimicking Swiss cheese. It smells musky, too. For such a beautifully solemn scene, for something built to withstand the outside world in the face of centuries, and for something displaying the infamous Avery’s latest clues, it’s not as grandiose as she would’ve imagined. Long gone is the stained glass from Scotland, the intricate maps placed on the floor, the giant cross of Saint Dismas looking her square in the eye, and the towering statues from just outside this temple. There’s no dismissing that it’s still such a magnificent sight to behold, something olden-age and coated in historical features, and there’s no wiping away what this place means to Avery’s trail, but it’s less than wealth-displaying ━ something she figured the esteemed Henry Avery would make sure to stay honorable to.

Her footsteps continue one by one, left, right, left, until she’s at the outline of the shallow water pool. Now that she hovers over it, peering into the liquid and seeing her reflection, her hair appearing a muted orange as it’s mixed with the vibrant, cobalt blue beneath, she can tell that it’s constructed of compact, rounded pebbles. They’re melted together, some smaller than a dime whereas others are larger than a quarter, an assortment of shades despite staying honest to the same spectrum of bright, unmistakable blue. It’s gorgeous, she decides. One of the only three, shiny, stand-out things within the room with the other being the ship wheel set right in front of her, then the telescope above.

Keeping that in mind, she also recalls the words she spoke to her teammates the night before, and how anything that looks too good to be true likely is. That sentiment isn’t lost on the pool of water, so she takes a giant, lunged step over it without getting a single drop on her boots, all as if the liquid is bound to bite or reveal a hidden force-field around the wheel. With her feet firmly set on the miniature island-looking plateau, her chin lifts to see each woman watching her with attentiveness and an uneasiness, Sasha currently in the process of cracking her knuckles in an anxious tendency, whereas Bayley’s lips are sealed shut and Charlotte grinds her teeth slightly.

The Irish woman gives them a nod, then turns her focus to the wheel that’s glaring into her back, burning its shape into her tactical vest and begging her to give it some attention. So, without further ado, she does, and the three women who stand on the top step begin to hold their breath when Becky’s fingertips raise to touch the object’s smooth, glossy texture and the button that lies in the center of the main part. It’s delayed, though, once she drops her hand back down to her side for another moment of suspense.

From where Charlotte stands, it looks as though Becky is pleading with the wheel, as if she’s become a snake-whisperer for these types of things. Although the redhead always had a knack for getting a mental sketch of an artifact before physically handling it, Becky’s care-derived habit of taking a moment to _really_ get a feel for things always makes Charlotte’s heart swell. She knows that part of Becky’s hesitance, here, is due to not knowing what the wheel could deliver, but, on the other hand, she also knows how much mindfulness the treasure hunter has dedicated to her craft. How much genuine respect she’s dedicated to it, and how much integrity regarding her endeavors.

Despite Charlotte’s misgivings with her ways of operation when it comes to the grand scheme of things, she’ll never doubt Becky’s passion for what she does; it’s never been a job, nor a career, nor a lifestyle. Even if the blonde had ever tried convincing herself that Becky is only in it for the lavishness, the wealth and the namesake, she knows it’d be a lost cause. She knows that, at the end of the day, this _is_ Becky Lynch. Her realm. Her element. Her embodiment. Who she is, how her body thrives, what’s coursing through her veins. Her heart and soul.

Maybe Charlotte doesn’t agree, and maybe there’s a somber emotion that shakes her to the core when she thinks about what Becky is willing to do in order to keep herself up and running, but Becky wouldn’t be who she is without this rush, this adrenaline kick.

She said it once, twice, three times, and she’ll keep saying it: Becky’s passion is admirable.

The hunter’s hand raises again, and, this time, she doesn’t allow herself to impede the inevitable any more than she already has. This time, her hand lifts above the wheel’s center button and her head turns to the left with one eye squinting in preparation for the unknown, her teammates holding their breath once more, all before she lowers her flattened fingers onto the object and pushes down.

Nothing happens.

Everyone exhales, but Becky frowns in confusion, eyebrows furrowed as she turns back to the golden ship wheel and studies its features. It’s a normal wheel for the most part, polished handle-pegs sticking out from the circular centerpiece, but previously overlooked is the single, rotating switch on one of the pegs, and━

She instinctively jolts backward once she hears the sound of multiple objects unlocking above her with multiple clicks and clunks as a result of hitting the switch, head whipping back and forth in acute panic while her teammates do the same. They see the orbs above them shake, drop an inch in signal that some mechanism is releasing them, though they stay upright on their respective rings. Still, Charlotte looks at Becky with a heavy chest when they continue to hear a menacing, unlocking sound from within the room’s walls, the blonde ready to rush forward and at least tackle the redhead to the ground like she had, back then, if something were to happen. She dares the room to give her a reason.

But it doesn’t, and Charlotte stays in place. Instead, their attention moves to a sudden, warm light that shines through the telescope-like cylinder above Becky’s head, streaming patterns onto the bottom ring tier on the wall in two, specific places: the “unfinished,” hexagon plaques. The historian’s worries are only near-completely lessened once she watches Becky exhale from where she stands, chin tilted upward and gradually spinning in place as if she’s taking everything in for the second time, all like a child.

Charlotte releases her own exhale, relaxing in place as Becky finally turns to her teammates and, through leveling breath, claims, “Okay, it’s safe,” with a beckoning gesture.

A shaky, sweaty hand runs through her hair, only stopping in her tracks when she hears Charlotte question, “How do you figure?” not with a belittling or argumentative attitude, but genuinely curious.

If the inquisition wasn’t enough to earn Becky’s full attention, Charlotte’s change in personality compared to minutes earlier would certainly steal it. But, again, they’ve been so hot and cold that maybe it _shouldn’t_ surprise her. Either way, Becky clears her throat and straightens her posture like she’s bound to answer something asked by a job instructor, extending her arm out and pointing to the stairs where the women still wait.

“I walked in a straight line, from the steps, to the nicest, most-central thing in here,” her finger draws a path through the air, following her movements until her hand gestures to the ship wheel on her right. “Any traps would’ve been set off in my path, or when I started fondling the control for… _those,”_ she gives a vague wave to the ceiling mechanisms, and Charlotte raises her chin at Becky’s explanation.

Becky can see that the blonde isn’t jumping to offer a rebuttal anytime soon, nor are the others opting to move from where they stand, so she continues with begrudging optimism of an indirect fashion.

“Besides, this must be another test. Avery wanted to give us a chance,” her body twists back so she can face the wheel, hands being placed at nine and three while her fingers rub against the silky gold. “If we pass, we move forward. If we don’t…” an unheard breath tumbles out of her mouth, lips staying parted, “we’re either trapped in here, or…”

The sentence drops off. Realistically, it never had to be finished in order to understand Becky’s implication: if they don’t succeed doing whatever there is to do in here, they’re trapped, as per Charlotte when she notified them of the lack of pressure pad near the doorway. Not to mention the lack of windows above, and how they’re underground. There’s no escaping. There’s no other way to leave, aside from making it through the task. Whatever it may be.

Bayley is first to take the plunge into the new territory, then Sasha and Charlotte alike. Each woman looks like a newborn finding their footing, feeling the ground beneath the soles of their boots as though they’ve discovered a new planet or a new Earth. Looking at the current scenario from a broader angle, it very well could be a new Earth. They’ve no doubt traveled back in time, that’s for certain. They’re walking on history. In Henry Avery’s footsteps. Among stone laid by pirates and those Avery hired. They’re leaving footprints in the same wake as hundreds of seventeenth century thieves had, where no ordinary man was able to scavenge.

It’s remarkable, Charlotte thinks as she keeps her eyes roaming the room surrounding them, admiring its aging stone, the dust collecting on the diamond patterns embedded into the walls, the columns, the perfect holes in the ceiling allowing more light to sneak into the otherwise-catacomb-like space. Most of all, she pays focus to the water wheel spinning within a cavity built into the wall opposite the entrance, listening to its frothy, consistent roar despite its echoes being muted by the way it’s hidden from the rest of the room.

Becky, too, stares at the wheel once she sees the historian standing in front of it. She wonders how long it took to make it, the materials, the precision to stick it into the wall without jamming anything too close to its rotation. The thought gets a quiet chuckle of disbelief, dropping her backpack from her shoulders and pulling her journal from the main compartment with a certain, determined swiftness.

She very seldom takes the time to sketch out displays that she could easily memorize, but, on occasion, things that bring such bafflement to her mind deserve a longer look. Sometimes, she just wants an actual picture to stare at, to study and to retrace, to wonder about for hours on end once the thieving is over and she’s able to relax, undisturbed. A leisure read, of sorts.

Charlotte hears a quiet humming coming from behind her, turning away from the water wheel and witnessing Becky intensely draw something in her journal. The sight reminds her of their first venture together, how Becky stopped a time or two in order to doodle in her journal when they had enough time to take a breather. It brought a smile to her face then, and, here, she has to fight with every ounce of her strength to keep a similar expression at bay. But it proves difficult once she sees Becky’s tongue just barely poke out of the side of her mouth in absentmindedness, eyes narrowed as her nose is practically smushed against the pages in remarkable focus.

Charlotte had never seen Becky’s drawings before, but it’s something she hopes to do in the future. What with such intent and bold strokes of what looks like an expensive, black pen, they must be something relatively revealing when it comes to how Becky looks at things. Maybe it’ll allow her to look beneath the surface, or see through Becky’s eyes. Even for the simplest things.

“Old engineering never fails to amaze me,” the treasure hunter’s eyes are still zoned into the page of her notebook before it’s closed with a soft clap, then slid back into her bag.

 _“So,_ what is this?” Sasha is first to mention the elephant in the room, chin lifted so she’s staring at the globes that surround them. “Is it… a sort of… puzzle?”

“Consisting of…?” Charlotte’s question tails the mercenary's.

It lingers in the air as Becky bites her cheek in thought, face contorting as she stares down at the ship wheel directly in front of her. Sasha now stands in place with her hands on her hips, at a loss for words in regards to the fresh setting whereas Bayley continuously finds new things to observe, current victim being the diamond shapes on the wall. Charlotte licks her lips before sealing them and staying with a demeanor that’s a mix of the other women, awestruck yet curious as she waits for something to give them a sign of what to do.

She doesn’t have to wait long for that sign to come, in actuality. Right as Becky’s fingertip shifts the smaller gear alongside one of the wheel’s spindles, the lone orb sat atop one of the oval slabs decorated with a beveled sun pattern begins to spin diagonally.

Becky’s jaw shifts with a mindless, pondering “I wonder…” daring to go further when she grasps the wheel fully and, with a bit of force, steers it to the left with a gradual, consistent motion.

As she does so, the two, massive orbs upon the bottom ring tier spin to the left, as well, the sound of stone scaping against stone filling the room with sporadic clunks for each time the mechanism gets stuck momentarily, and dust puffs out from behind the objects. Their movement shakes the ground where they stand, feeling like a colony of trucks is driving by the room at a constant, never-disappearing rate until she stops turning the wheel.

“Planet patterns and cardinal directions?” it’s more of a question than a statement, Charlotte’s voice contemplative but seeking confirmation from their leading hunter.

Becky nods mainly to herself, but also at the assumption.

“Looks that way,” she doesn’t blink away from the two spots of light shining onto the plaque-like areas.

One film of light has a fancy _“W”_ shadow disrupting its center, its associating globe with presumably the same _“W”_ cut into it residing on the other side of the ring, for the time being. “Presumably” being the operative word. As it’s set now, unmoved and unaltered, the _“S”_ is showing on its face, directing Becky to spin it using one of the sun-decorated ovals until it’s twisted in the desired direction. It’s the same for the second orb on the track, the globe spun so its line is diagonally cutting downward whereas its landing pad asks for a different pattern: its patch of light is sharply cut in half, vertically, with no remnants of that luminescence bleeding onto the shadowed hemisphere. Like a half-moon rather than a planet, truly.

“Okay, so, we have spinner plates,” Becky flicks at the small, finger-sized control on the spindle to show them an example before turning the wheel again, _“and_ we have a way to slide the globes.”

“You have to match each one with the light pattern on its respective pad.”

Bayley’s voice is heard for the first time in a while, theorizing with an airiness to it; she knows that she’s onto something, and there’s a hint of pride within her words that Becky picks up on, though her lack of instant acknowledgement brings the brunette to ask for confirmation with a meek “Right?”

This time, Becky doesn’t stray from hiding her good impression, humming and nodding, “Yeah, yeah, I believe so,” while glancing back down at the wheel.

“Let’s get to it, then,” Sasha rubs her hands together, still looking up at the ceiling.

“Right,” the treasure hunter agrees, clearing her throat and paying attention to what she’d like to do first.

Her focus drifts to the orb with formal letters carved into it, steering the wheel to the left as the entire, bottom ring spins on an unseen track. Dust flakes down from each orb, creating a smokey film in the air whenever they shift for more than a second at a time. Charlotte carefully moves further into the room, not wanting to stand below the track as it’s moving, and, soon, she’s standing in the same area where Sasha and Bayley watch the scene unfold.

Using one of the oval plates with a sun pattern, Becky’s finger triggers the spinning control, a scraping sound echoing throughout the room as the marble sphere turns until the _“S”_ is gone, the _“E”_ comes into view, then the _“N,”_ and, ultimately, the _“W.”_ When the letter is entirely front-facing, it’s time to give the planet-phase globe her undivided attention as it’s set onto the spinner plate, twisted and twisted until the darker stone is on the left hemisphere, lighter marble on the right.

“That should do it,” the encouragement is self-directed, but she can see Bayley nodding out of the corner of her eye.

Carefully, she turns the wheel to the left with still motions. Simultaneously, the handles surrounding the two orbs move in sync with the way the ring is pulled until they’re settling into their respective light patterns, the marble of each globe being brightened and causing them to look completely white-colored aside from where the shadow lies. A click resonates, then more dust sprinkles to the ground like snow once those handles clasp onto the spheres tightly, seemingly pulling them further against the plaques now established as being pressure plates.

A rumble begins to shake the room, that spurt of panic resurfacing until smaller streams of light from the overhead telescope flicker toward three, specific points of the walls between columns of the decorative archways. Before anyone can question why ━ verbally _or_ mentally ━ three sections of flooring are slid to the side as statues rise up from the floor, Sasha muttering, “This is insane,” with her words being suppressed behind the sound of scraping rock and a final thump once they’re all in place.

“Okay, _that_ was cool,” Bayley comments with a dopey smirk, and no one disagrees.

“Hey, look, it’s Anne Bonny,” the hunter’s smile is huge, bright and shiny as she nods to one of the statues.  “She was an Irish pirate, you know,” she says proudly, all three women turning to her, though Becky doesn’t take her eyes away from the statue. “The first pirate I learned about after Avery, himself.”

“An Irish pirate,” Charlotte repeats, even with a pointed grin. “You can relate, then.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst person to resemble.”

“What about the others?” Sasha asks once she’s finished studying them, watching Becky’s nose crinkle in a pensive essence before she points to one.

“That’s al-Basra, and... I’m…” she struggles, her lips pursed, “not sure about him.”

Sasha quirks an eyebrow, “You don’t know?” and, instantly, Becky’s eyes bug in defense.

“There are a _lot_ of pirates out there.”

The mercenary lets up on her teasing by raising her eyebrows and giving Becky a curt hum that’s, again, lost muffled by the sound of scraping stone. Back above them, the second ring is now the focal point of display with two light patterns differing from the stage previous. Shining onto one of the hexagonal plaques is another patch with three, shadowed lines shooting diagonally downward, to the right, so the light pattern is once again sliced down the middle. The other plaque is lit up by a similar one, though its diagonal center is only disrupted by a single, dark break.

Becky makes quick work of the puzzle’s second stage, her cunning eye and sharp memory grasping onto the wheel’s controls with ease. It’s like she’s done this before, Charlotte internally muses while shaking the appearing grin from her face, also turning away from Becky so she can’t catch the faint enjoyment.

Only the click of the marble spheres being set on their respective landing pads regains Charlotte’s attention, and, this time, the rumbling that envelops them isn’t as foreign or menacing. She can’t say the same about the clouds of dusts that puff out from behind the giant orbs, though, like when their holders clamp tighter to trigger the statues’ following mechanism. Each time, she wonders if they’ll crash to the floor and shatter. Thankfully, they don’t.

Like with the first wave, additional pirates swirl up from the ground ━ this time four. They continue to fill in the gaps between archways decorating the room like theater curtains, all while those smaller surges of light shine onto them with an unspoken “Behold!”

Avery sure didn’t like to be low-key.

“And these four?”

“Joseph Farrell,” to answer Sasha’s question, she nods at the first, then adds in a side note. “I know him by his floppy hat and feather.”

“How charming.”

Becky ignores the mercenary’s dry comment, naming, “That one’s William Mayes, then bin Malik, and Christopher Condent.”

“Four for four this time,” Bayley’s voice is uppity ━ something that Becky picks up on.

 _“Oh,_ the tone of surprise,” her hands reach for the wheel again, next muttering to herself. “You miss _one_ pirate name and suddenly your skills are called into question from then on.”

Her words incite amusement from Sasha and Bayley, the mercenary snickering with her counterpart smirking. Alongside them but turned around, Charlotte even shakes her head a bit with a subtle, lighthearted eye-roll that’s missed by the two other women, especially Becky who now lies set on completing the final ring of this task. Until she glances up at what she has to match, that is.

“I… didn’t notice those before,” it doesn’t come off as worried or upset ━ the remark doesn’t even truly pertain to what she has to do ━ but it’s predominantly stumped; internally, Becky is more so concerned that she missed a large detail, also concerned that this place enchanted her so easily that she overlooked a major symbol.

Not that it affects anything ━ not that it affects the puzzle at hand ━ but she’ll have to pay even-closer attention to detail; she can’t afford to look past something, big or small, solely because she wants to go sightseeing. That’s forbidden in this line of business. A sin, in a way. A mistake, more like. Missing something could, to sum it up, bring you to the end of the line. It could get you killed.

Luckily, this puzzle doesn’t seem so “do or die,” and she’s able to breathe out without giving notice of her paranoia to her partners who turn to look what she’s referring to.

“Those aren’t planet patterns, nor directions,” Bayley squints, tilting her head at an acute angle.

“What are they, then?” Sasha mimics her stance, just with a deep-settled frown.

They each observe the pair of new symbols that they have to match on plaques, the topmost ring evidently having no spheres like the lower two. These puzzle pieces resemble giant hockey pucks, rounded, thick slabs of marble with two different symbols embedded on their surfaces. As they wait to be moved, their order is in disarray for the moment, so the women turn their attention to the two spots of light with shadows directing them to the proper orientation. The first is a perfect circle with a vertical line poking downward from the bottom of it, then a horizontal line making that into a cross ━ commonly known as the “female” symbol, but derived from something deeper.

“Oh,” Becky says with a mindlessness, an abrupt understanding as she’s about to explain.

“That’s the symbol of Venus,” Charlotte beats her to it with a point, but the redhead doesn’t stop her because, seriously, she’s dreamt of the moments where the historian breaks out some of her own knowledge. “And…” her finger moves to the other, “symbol of Mars.”

Becky nods as her eyes bore into the second light pattern disrupted by a shadowed outline. What’s pictured is a circle off-centered, an arrow pointing diagonally upwards to the right ━ also referred to as the symbol of “male.”

She gives Charlotte a tight-lipped grin displaying a non-verbalized, grateful sentiment paired with a curt nod. This time, the blonde doesn’t turn away quickly, but rather pauses, allows her eyes to drift off to the side, then breaks their tension.

It’s lost on Becky, anyway. She’s already in the midst of her mission to steer the stones into place, but this ring proves harder than the rest, voiced by Becky who sighs, “Shoulda known.”

Because, as the ring moves around the room at Becky’s steering, the stones begin to rotate on their own tracks, their own axes, meaning that she’ll have to use the sun ovals to spin each symbol to the proper angle, three or four ticks further of the spindle’s finger-sized control. Once that’s done ━ once the symbols are slanted in the mirrored direction ━ she’ll be able to use the ship wheel to bring them into their rightful positioning.

Easy for someone as calculative as Becky, but a pain in the ass, nevertheless.

“Pirates really do the _most,_ don’t they?”

While giving the puzzle most of her attention, she still makes time to laugh at Sasha’s quip. It’s true: pirates are nothing if not tricksters, or masochists when it comes to outsiders’ troubles. Then again, who would want to simply _give away_ their treasure? For the most part, a pirate’s thinking goes along the lines of “If you can find it, you’ve earned it.” It goes without being said that, if you perish, you haven’t earned it.

“Should be it,” she breathes out once she’s spun each stone to the necessary angle. “Watch and learn,” her ego returns with a triumphant sense of pride ━ by all means, _that’s_ something she’s earned.

No one refutes it, either. Not when their eyes follow the sliding, stone symbols, each of the two spinning on their axes while moving with the entire ring until, with a final click, they’re being pinched between their holders and pressed against the pressure pads. That means she’s done it, successful and rightful to gloat. Her calculations worked, and now…

The sound of flickering and thumping comes from within the walls, fading down to the floor with the heads of three more statued pirates emerging from the ground, skinny paths of lights shining down on each.

Sasha turns to Becky when she doesn’t hear any names, catching the redhead staring down at the steering wheel as if, after everything, it’s still something she’s not used to. Her bottom lip is pinched between two fingers, curious about an idea unbeknownst to the rest of them. That changes after ten more seconds, however, when she glances up without removing her fingers from her lip, noticing that her three teammates are assessing her.

“Sorry,” she drops her hand back to her side, emphatically clearing her throat and quickly studying the new statues. “Richard Want,” it comes with a finger point, “Edward England,” another, then a final one for good measure, “and Thomas Tew.”

But something’s lost. “Lost” being an iffy word. More like… missing, or _presumably_ existing without being seen. The puzzle isn’t complete, and Becky’s shoulders slump once she exhales in perplexion.

“We’re missing our star pirate.”

That’s what’s amiss, and Becky mentally thanks Charlotte for pointing it out. Henry Avery ━ the birth father of this hellish scavenger hunt, the most important founder amongst a dozen more, the target perpetrator of their endeavours ━ is nowhere to be found.

“Maybe he’s guarding the treasure?” Bayley’s suggestion sounds more like a question, and Becky wonders the same; she could have a valid point, especially if Avery was so set on being the biggest name there is.

That mindset wouldn’t have randomly _died_ solely because he gathered companions who shared the same ideology. He’d still want to be the exclamation point of the hunt, the main man of the story. It was _his_ story, after all. At the beginning of Becky’s ventures, he was the lone name she sought after. No partners. No “right hand” men ━ or lone woman; sorry, Bonny. No companions, no partners in crime, no assistants, or co-conspirators, or ━ seemingly ━ co- _founders._ No matter what, this is still _Avery’s_ hunt.

So, where is he?

Her boots begin to shake against the ground, and she looks to her partners in wonderance if they feel the same. They do, judging by the way their bodies twist and turn with desire to find the source of movement. It’s another mechanism, they can tell, but there’s nothing changing within the room. Not on the ceiling, not on the walls, where the orbs lie, or the telescope object hung above Becky’s head.

Everything remains unchanged until, to the wheel’s right, a flat, statue-less wall slides down halfway into the stone ground. Simultaneously, stairs raise one after another leading from the stone floor and up until it’s flush with the new hallway with shining light at the end.

It’s a new exit, for sure, but trusting in it to lead them to somewhere safe is another story. The end of it is illuminated, looking like the inside of one of those lighthouse-appearing towers with walls curved into an empty cylinder or canon chamber. Sat in the center of it is something golden, the only thing showing Becky an ounce of personality within the dusty, stone structure ━ from where she stands, that is.

“That’s not sketchy at all,” Sasha says dreadfully, never failing to provide a snarky comment ━ at this point, Becky would have to agree; it doesn’t look the most welcoming, nor the most comforting.

Becky peers over her shoulder at the others, particularly at Charlotte who tries to push her evident caution down into the pit of her stomach. Not to say it’d do much good bubbling there, either. The Irish woman doesn’t search for a nod or an agreement to proceed. Instead, she forces a breath, raises her chin, and regathers her synthetic courage that’ll carry them up these stairs, down the hallway, and until they reach the dead end where light shines down like through a flashlight’s tube.

Her feet avoid touching the water of the shallow pool again, this time out of habit in opposition of dismay or anxiety. By now, she knows it won't electrocute or bite her ━ it’s not a trap or a sci-fi constructed forcefield ━ but she doesn’t think much of it when her eyes are locked onto the golden object at the end of the hallway. Three pairs of footsteps follow quite closely, up the steps in a rapid motion until they’re all surrounding what they now know is a golden lever jutting out from the stone floor.

Like pressure pads, in the end, levers don’t usually mean anything good, and apparently Becky has the same thought as Charlotte when brown eyes peer upward to look at the historian, the women on opposite sides of the object.

She’d already warned Becky to be careful plenty of times, though. And, truthfully, Becky was right when she had taken those worries and held them in her open palm while dismissing them ━ in a less indifferent use of the word ━ due to taking the necessary risks to move forward. If they don’t take this risk, they’ll be stuck in the larger, round room with nothing but daylight streaming through the ceiling until even that’s gone, and a water wheel that can only provide them with so much. There’s no other way out, and this is the only thing offering any sort of option.

So, in the end, Charlotte seals her lips and pretends to be less than troubled about it, and that gives Becky the insight of mutual understanding. Neither Sasha nor Bayley interrupt the silence, either, and only stand waiting for Becky’s hands to grip the lever’s golden handle. Their concentration is self-explanatory, and the redhead nods while biting her inner cheek.

It has to be done.

Her hands reach for the lever, holding onto it like she’s choking up a baseball bat with fingers adjusting once, twice, a third time.

“Please don’t be a trap,” she whispers to herself with one eye squinted, ultimately pulling the lever and immediately feeling the floor shake.

Luckily, it almost instantly transitions into reassurance in the form of a rising elevator floor, the women looking around while on the platform, their worries meanwhile calming little by little without releasing their breath. Sasha takes a step away from Bayley, too, though no one aside from herself noticed when she previously reached for the brunette’s arm just as the floor began to quake. Thankfully, not even Bayley had noticed, but now she turns to the mercenary who appears guilty as sin for little to no reason, and it’s making her frown.

Her growing suspicion is entirely erased once fresh air is engulfing them once more, the breeze now turned into a gusty wind as it’s cooler than when they first repelled down into the temple’s belly. The sun is muffled by thicker clouds, additionally, bestowing very scarce warmth on their sweaty skin. Even so, none of the altered climate is paid attention to once they’re out in the open, now stepping off of the stone platform and to the edge of a cave that overlooks the smaller island with the first tower.

Becky hums at Avery’s use of the island’s natural features, giving him credit where it’s due; his island certainly is a wonder, no matter how fast his traps ━ or lack thereof ━ make her heart race.

“What are we…” Bayley is about to ask what they’re doing there, why Avery brought them up into a high cave to overlook the island where nothing new is stationed, but her question is derailed by that something new finally coming to light.

Across the way ━ across the small stream that separates the larger portion of the island from its smaller half, a handful of yards away from the tower ━ a hole forms in the ground as two pieces of stone separate. Weeds and vines that originally covered the giant, sliding panels fall into the cavity below, then onto the rising hat of an even-bigger pirate statue. Bigger than the statues they saw when lowering themselves through the chasm, after the minutes of sliding down muddy hills. In fact, it’s the most prominent statue that Becky has seen throughout any of this trail, including that of Scotland and Madagascar.

She has no doubt this is a monument of Avery, himself, with a standing platform on his shoulder and a telescope looking out into the wide sea. He’s directing them somewhere, and Becky knows it all too quickly. Reckless goosechase, it is.

An annoyed and tired scoff slips through her lips.

“Anyone else get the idea that this guy was an extreme narcissist?” leave it to Sasha to break the tension with a blunt statement, Charlotte raising her eyebrows.

Becky turns away from the sight, putting her hands on her hips and clenching her jaw before darkly chuckling to herself, “The bastard’s seriously going to send us back and forth, isn’t he?”

The three other women turn around, Sasha and Charlotte sharing a curious, frightful look without either verbalizing their questions. It’s unlike Becky to appear so animal-in-cage about something, especially treasure hunting from what Charlotte can remember, and her attitude is off-putting as the Irish woman now bites her thumbnail and paces within the cave. She looks intense, shoulders stiffened and biceps taut against her sleeves, like her entire body’s been put into knotted overdrive. Like she’s overwhelmed, or backed against a mental wall. Like she’s lost her confidence in them finding the treasure solely because of a simple statue.

“You know, the only thing that’s really shocking me right now is that you didn’t expect this from a crazed pirate,” the mercenary’s voice puts a halt to her pacing, and Becky tilts her head to the side with narrowed, disagreeing eyes.

“Even the trails of crazed pirates end at some point,” she argues, but no resentment toward Sasha is detected; her only frustration is with Avery. “I’ve been following him for _continents,”_ her fingers clench into claws, animatedly speaking before her arms go limp by her sides.

Becky knows she’s being over the top about it. She knows that she should’ve expected this out of one of the biggest, bountiest pirates in all of existence. Henry Avery, a short step below Edward Teach ━ A.K.A. Blackbeard ━ keeper of lost treasure, somewhere in a far, far away land.

But they’ve found that land. Or, at least, she thought they did. After her pining and scratching and clawing up Saint Dismas’ Cathedral, digging around its yard and down into the cemetery’s hidden basement. After roaming the lengths of winding caves that lead straight through unimaginable tasks of witt and gut. After flying to Madagascar where she’d head below ground once more, then up the side of a belltower, only to head back below ground in order to complete yet another test.

God, she thought they’d found that land. _This_ land. Libertalia, hidden somewhere on the island. And to see that Avery is bound to send them sailing in a new direction, toward presumably where that telescope points…

She bites her lower lip, bowing her head.

“We haven’t hit any booby traps yet,” Bayley adds to the conversation, a tad more sympathy in her voice, but only on Becky’s account. “Isn’t that the first sign of having a cold trail? Or at least not a hot one.”

Okay, so Softy has a point.

“Even if booby traps mean treasure, better hope we don’t run into any.”

Charlotte’s eyes move from Bayley and Sasha to Becky who nods in fairness, knowing booby traps would certainly be a gamble when it comes to winning or losing what they’ve traveled here in hopes of finding. With a breath and a forced, tight-lipped smile, Becky begins to move to the side of the cave where she finds an already-anchored zipline down to the ground.

Similar to earlier with the rope tied to the stray tree’s limb, she tests it by giving it a yank, but it doesn’t budge.

“It’s safe,” she turns to her teammates, nodding sideways to the zipline’s ending origin. “Let’s go see what Avery wants to show us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy RR weekend, everyone!
> 
> I'm still out here working diligently, hoping to continue posting on a normal schedule. The next few chapters are beefier, though, I have to admit. Even this one is a little longer than usual. But no one ever complained about a chapter being too long so that's good. :')
> 
> As I said last chapter, we're finally making it to a point where it's a little more intense. This chapter was a bit more fun (also one of my favorite puzzles in the game). Honestly, my writing probably doesn't do it justice, which isn't an insult to myself because I gave it my fkn all, but the scenery of that puzzle is WHEW. But I hope those who haven't played the game were able to picture it as much as possible. It's an amazing thing, really. If not, I highly recommend you head to YouTube and search "Uncharted 4 Chapter 12 Wheel Chamber Puzzle." It's incredible. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope everyone enjoys their RR weekend, and I'll be back soon! Slight spoiler: Next chapter sure is... somethin', and it's a long time coming.


	13. Chapter 13

SUN., 2:47 P.M.

* * *

The sequence of ziplining down to the ground takes less than a minute for all four women to complete. They touch down safely and without trouble, share a round of nods, then make their way back to the boat. It’s easier than expected, what with the zipline allowing them to avoid the major obstacles they already accomplished like swinging below the rock formation’s archway, and crawling through the collapsed tunnel. Luckily, they think, it’s avoidable as the zipline took them halfway back to the boat.

What doesn’t come as easily is getting _into_ the boat, it being parked pretty much against that large, rocky pillar in the middle of the stadium-like cavern. Standing upon the higher cliff within the cave, resting feet above a smaller platform, their vessel floats approximately twenty-five to thirty feet away. It bobs against the waves that now rush into the walled space before spreading out, thrashing every now and again with a hollow, thumping sound behind heard. The cave is also far mistier, moisture coating the walls and causing it to look more reflective of the scarce sunlight that occasionally peeks into the darkened bubble. It only heightens the cavern’s musky odor from earlier, though this time it’s not much of a surprise to their nostrils.

Becky scans the area for reassurance that they have a way to reach their ride out of here. They can’t scale the wall, not when there aren’t any hand-holds like there were along the top where they hung above the water, and there’s nothing to grapple onto. Annoyingly, there’s only one way to reach the boat, and it’s something she’s been trying her darndest to avoid. Unfortunately, it seems she’s run out of ways to navigate around it.

“Drop your bags and gloves on the edge here. We’ll come back for them in a second,” the redhead instructs, looking out at the boat as they follow her guidance with Becky, herself, doing the same. “Don’t want them gettin’ soaked.”

Sasha does as told rather quickly, slipping the backpack from her shoulders and tossing her gloves onto the bag with a single motion, then steps to stand next to the treasure hunter while Charlotte and Bayley undo their equipment, as well.

“It’s time for a swim,” Becky assumes Sasha’s role in being dull about it, unhappy about the turn of events, and the mercenary likewise makes a face at the plan.

“Why can’t _you_ just swim over there?” she debates, eyebrows raised with a fauxly innocent smile gracing her features; she thinks she’s gotten the upper hand again, but Becky was ready for it.

“I can’t drive the boat,” it’s said as if it’s the most obvious thing, then she childishly defends herself. “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair if _I_ were the only one to swim.”

“What happened to wanting to let go and dive into the waves?”

The treasure hunter turns to her left when she hears Charlotte’s call-out, face dropped into a dumbfounded stare with her lips parted and eyes stagnant until she begins to blink rapidly, stunned. The reaction causes Charlotte to smirk for a split second as she passes Becky and drops onto the lower tier of rock, their collective attitude not comfortable but also less than irritated. Sure, so they haven’t hashed things out or smoothed things over between them, and Charlotte still harbors ill-founded emotions within her stomach, but she meant it when she said she’s not ignoring the Irish woman.

If there’s a call-out to be made, Becky best believe that Charlotte will snatch the opportunity.

And, on Becky’s side of things, she’ll allow it; anything to get the historian talking, feeling, reacting, smirking, _smiling._

Fuck, she hopes for a smile.

Without delaying it any longer, she hops down the single ledge while the splashing sound of Bayley eagerly diving into the water first bounces through the cave. Sasha and Charlotte stand at the rock’s edge, ready to hop in, as well, before Becky pushes by them and takes her turn before anyone can argue.

For good measure, she peers over her shoulder and shoots her own, daring smirk at Charlotte, the blonde biting the tip of her tongue between her teeth and begrudgingly leaping into dark, teal-colored water that’s warmer than she initially anticipated. More humid, too, and she makes a face while paddling herself alongside Sasha to the boat where Bayley helps her up, and Becky does the same for the mercenary.

Fortunately for the four of them, the treasure hunter had planned for the event of a swim ━ mostly one against their will ━ and prematurely stowed away a stack of thin, cheap towels which ultimately help a modest amount. The crew looks overall disheveled and damp, hair staying dry for the most part ━ save the ends ━ however their clothes are drenched and heavy.

Not Becky’s brightest idea, she’ll admit.

On the flip side, the mud from earlier has just about entirely washed away, both the remnants of its sludge and the patches of crusty dirt. Whether the trade-off of mud for water is better or worse remains to be seen. Still, after a round of useless “drying off” and a pile of soaked towels being lumped into the same, back corner of the wheelhouse, Bayley is getting situated behind the controls. Not even a minute passes before they’re drifting in a curved edge, easing the boat against the rock from which they just jumped.

With the vessel stilled against the ledge, motors humming, Becky makes sure to jump onto the lower cliff and reach back onto the upper rock in order to grab their things, tossing the backpacks one by one to Sasha who distributes them to their respective owners. Becky’s is last to be acquired, and she pulls the backpack’s straps over her tactical vest while tugging her gloves back onto her hands, fixing them once, twice, three times, though her motions are stopped when she hears Sasha direct at Bayley, “I say we test how fast she can run.”

The mercenary's passive-aggressive, underlying “Hurry up” causes Becky to relent nit-picking at both her gloves and the bag that sticks to her wet clothing, jumping back into the boat and nearly falling over the other edge once a wave sways them at the precise moment. Sasha snorts at her off-balanced blunder, her frantic reaching for one of the boat’s handles, but Becky dismisses it while giving Bayley the go-ahead to proceed back to the smaller island.

Directly at their exit through the cavern’s arch, there’s a chill in the air that notifies them of the gradual change in weather. The sky is more grey of multiple tints, light peeking out from behind the clouds every now and again, but it’s a toned, struggling yellow instead of the soft white that warms your skin. It’s as if the sun is striving to maintain order and strength but the clouds won’t stand for it, and those clouds suck up the warmth without radiating it any further, mimicking a conductor. It’s a wall of mist, a wall of poofy, whitish-grey that’s familiar but also un-nurturing. Unkind, as well.

Suddenly, the island they first came to know with open arms and that family-esque aura has twisted into something falsely convincing, toothy and sinister, like it’s the Devil on your shoulder that’s trying to curdle your thoughts and words into something sour. Something you shouldn’t believe, even.

They all feel it, too. Admittedly, they’ve been picking up on the strange shift since they stepped away from that elevator and onto the ledge of the tall cave. Beyond Avery’s tall-standing statue, they could see a build-up of clouds and the trees dancing back and forth with greater force than the simple breeze they encountered hours ago. Quite frankly, their surroundings don’t look as vacation-y anymore, and everyone notes how the island’s colors have faded, how the plants have drooped, the trees have wilted slightly, and the sand is now bland, more pebbly. It’s like they’ve stepped through an invisible wall between that of vibrance and otherwise greyscale.

Sasha searches the sky, tracing the bumpy outline of a smoky cloud just as they pull up alongside the shore closest to Avery’s statue ━ this time on the strip of beach opposite to where they last trudged up to the tower on the other side of a rounded, fifteen-foot-tall boulder.

The mercenary releases a breath, grimacing a bit as she says, “Let’s hope this isn’t the start of something we can’t handle,” without taking her eyes away from the sky.

Becky is staring in the same area, chin tilted upward while swallowing hard and agreeing with a muttered “Yeah.”

As if on cue, a distanced rumble of thunder echoes against the clouds, though it sounds further north, straight away from the mainland and opposite of where Avery’s telescope is pointing. The small fact puts her mind at ease for the time being, and the group steps out of the boat one by one with its frontside tucked into the sand.

“Déjà vu,” Bayley quietly chuckles, and Becky admires her mindless remarks.

It keeps the enthusiasm alive and the mind distracted.

Charlotte watches the sky as they walk in the direction of the statue set atop three slabs of stone ━ similar to those larger-than-life stairs from hours ago. She has a shaky feeling about it, the way the weather has changed so rapidly and they’re at least two hours away from the mainland. The only thing that keeps her mindful is the knowledge of thunder rumbling in the other direction, and she can tell Becky has noticed it, as well, when her head turns the same way. They’re on the same page, then, but it doesn’t make it any less nerve-wracking.

Their damp boots collect tiny pieces of gravel that are only noticed once they’re stepping onto flat stone. A small crunching sound is heard step by step, Becky pulling herself up onto the slabs of rock before Bayley, then Charlotte, then Sasha. It’s routine now, and the treasure hunter makes sure to give them an impressed hum when they’re standing behind her almost immediately once she goes to check on them.

That impression is lost once she spins back on her heel to see that they’re at the base of the statue, and, _shit,_ is it taller than she ever could’ve imagined.

Bayley is the one who actually voices the thought, not-so-jokingly saying, “That is one, _giant_ man.”

They only stare with their chins lifted.

The driver certainly wasn’t exaggerating. The climb to the shoulder pad will no doubt require a grapple and some good strength traveling straight up, but it’s nothing she hasn’t done before. With ease, the hook is undone from her belt once she looks down, feeling the rope’s soaked texture through her gloves. She had decided against unlatching it from her belt when they took the abrupt dive into the water, but now she’s wondering if that was a mistake. Too late to fix it, she thinks.

Her arm begins to swing the rope after she takes two steps back, the others giving her enough room to create a proper radius for a generous throw. Like it’s nothing, her hands let go as she takes her lower lip between her teeth in a cocky grin, then she pushes her tongue to her inner cheek with a nod. All set for her to climb.

Or, actually…

“Anyone want to do the honors?” she can’t help herself when she turns to her partners, and the mercenary frowns. “Pinky? No? I’d say we could all head up, but—“

“Just do it already,” Sasha sounds aggravated, like it’s groaned out, and Becky relents while turning around.

With her teeth gritted together, she uses one hand after another to pull herself up the rope, mimicking how she’d done it to scale the tower ━ again with Sasha pursing her lips in fascination. Her arms feel tighter with her wet clothes giving her some extra weight, not to mention the chill that extracts a batch of goosebumps once a gust of wind passes through. But, soon, the platform upon Avery’s shoulder is just above her eye level, and she’s able to slightly swing her body in order to grab onto its closest edge.

“Hello, Mr. Avery,” it’s tailed by a grunt while her arms are stretched out, dangling from the piece of stone.

For a handful of seconds, she hangs there while gathering more strength, that familiar, cool sensation numbing her bent knuckles and outstretched arms with her full weight pulling her with gravity. That strength is eventually mustered enough to haul herself upward and onto the platform, staying on her hands and knees to take a few, deep breaths.

Charlotte and Sasha stand with their arms crossed, the mercenary’s face stoic and semi-impatient whereas the blonde looks around at their surroundings as if she’s searching for something hidden. Anxiously, or the same jab of paranoia that tells her something isn’t right. Even Bayley’s features are a little less colored, like the island’s sudden “for the worse” personality has stolen hers along with it.

That, alone, is worrisome, but Charlotte tries to ignore it. She knows that she’s previously gotten herself into detrimental mindsets on her own accord, for no reason at all. Yeah, she’s had her own internal logic, normally valid but otherwise not, and something had to have triggered those spur-the-moment panics, but sometimes they’re so sudden, so random that she can’t escape or avoid them. Often times, they make things worse. Often times, they cause her to act out, or speak without thinking, blame others, use a scapegoat. All of the above. But, again, fear is natural, right? Expected, even.

Even more so when on a pirate island.

Standing upright on Avery’s shoulder platform, Becky adjusts her stance and ducks her head a bit so she can line up her eyes with the telescope’s angle. And, with a bit of blinking and refocusing, with a bit of shifting her feet closer and holding onto the tube with her hands cupped around the lense’s lip, she catches her first glimpse of another island.

Unfortunately, it’s a sight she wishes she didn’t have to see. Straight south, with a fifteen-minute boat ride ahead of them, their adventure will pick up on the shore of an island at least twenty times the size of this one, both width-wise and height-wise. From what she can see of the dark outline, there are plenty of trees ━ even more so a jungle than what they’ve become accustomed to here ━ and more cliffs. In fact, there’s a giant mountain in the middle, a wide base until it heads upward and narrows, curving at the top into what looks like the opening of a snapping turtle’s jaw. It’s menacing, absolutely frightening, and the giant storm that looms above it with lightning streaks nipping at the top of the cliff does it no favors.

In all honesty, Becky wishes they could turn away and head back to the mainland, at least for another day, but they’ve come this far. She’s gotten them here, and she’ll get them home once this is all said and done. She’s made a promise to both them and herself, even if it’s only stayed within the confines of her mind without being heard by attentive ears below.

She makes a popping sound with her lips before backing away from the telescope, lightly claiming, “Looks like our trip just got a bit longer thanks to one Captain Avery,” with that unwavering, faint annoyance.

“What is it?” Bayley asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Giant skull-shaped island?” Sasha’s joke is next to come, and Becky chuckles from where she looks down on them.

“You’ve been watching too many cliché, pirate movies, haven’t you?”

The mercenary doesn’t have room to respond once Becky takes a chance and jumps down, touching her knee to the dirt with her hands planted on either side. She pushes herself back to her feet, brushing her gloves together while seriously answering, “Not a skull island. Just a massive, scary-looking one.”

“Goodie,” Sasha raises her eyebrows with wide eyes, and Charlotte mirrors the reaction.

For a second, Becky hesitates where she stands and her face drops from dryly joking to conflicted. She thinks about the storm that’s passing near the island and what it could mean for the water’s turbulence. No matter what their reactions may be, she feels the need to confess. So, she does.

“There is one thing, though.”

“Heard that before,” Charlotte mumbles, rolling her eyes as Becky, for a second, gives her an impish grin that’s not really a grin at all.

“A storm… is currently passing the island,” after the hesitance, she bows her head. “I checked the radar this morning and saw nothing, but…” it’s ended with an iffy, clicking sound behind her teeth.

“Well, there’s nowhere to hide away here,” Sasha shrugs. “Might as well go in the direction we’re supposed to.”

“Agreed,” Bayley adds.

At their resounding, unchanging agreement, Becky’s motion of a nod is stiff but decisive; it’s not that she wants to head toward a storm ━ even less so by boat on a wild sea ━ but Sasha is right: there’s absolutely nowhere for them to take refuge while it passes. And they shouldn’t forget about the second storm north of here. Who’s to say the two storms wouldn’t collide to form something extraordinarily dangerous? Even the cavern where they parked the boat earlier could very well rise with water as waves crash through the entrance, bigger and scarier than only minutes ago when their vessel periodically thrashed against the stone.

But, then again, maybe her pessimism is just intoxicating her thoughts. Sure, Becky always tries staying far, _far_ away from her optimsm that finds solace in nipping her ass whenever it’s even vaguely tasted, but being negative won’t do her any favors, either.

“This area is notorious for odd weather,” she says with a small batch of makeshift reassurance ━ though it’s not a lie. “Like the Bermuda Triangle when it comes to climate,” a laugh snakes out from her throat as she turns away from the statue.

She looks over the edge of the rock they’re on, glancing at the stone steps that they’d ascended to make it to the statue’s base. They wind back down to the beach’s edge, resembling a large, spiral staircase, and she’s about to retrace her steps when she catches a glimpse of an easier way down. Anything to save time, now.

“This way,” the hunter nods in the direction of a plantless, dirt path that slopes down to the beach next to another large rock. “No need for unnecessary jumpin’ when I assume we’ll be doing plenty on the next island.”

It’s a good enough reason for the others, not to say they’re paying much attention when their focus is primarily locked on the darkening clouds above them.

Becky takes the slope first, easing herself down it without trouble once realizing that it’s dry sand instead of any mud. Her hand slaps the stone as she goes by, and Sasha does the same. Charlotte follows the mercenary with a deep breath, then seals her lips when looking south and seeing a spark of lightning fill the clouds like a light being illuminated inside a thin tent. Finally, Bayley is walking down the slope, tripping over a harder, small rock beneath the sand but catching herself instead of full-on face-planting. It doesn’t stop her from throwing a glare over her shoulder, though, giving that rock a little what for. At least, she plans on it until she’s stopping in her tracks.

“Anyone need anything else while we’re here?” up ahead, Becky humors the others without realization that their group isn’t complete.

In fact, the first and only one to notice is Charlotte who goes to glance by her side without finding the brunette, then assuming that she’s only dawdling behind a step or two. For the majority of their trip so far, Bayley has either walked with Becky stride from stride, or she’s taken her sweet time absorbing their surroundings like a sponge. There’s been no medium. So, it doesn’t alert Charlotte when Bayley isn’t next to her, but it does once she peers over her shoulder and doesn’t see the driver anywhere close by. In actuality, Bayley stands way back at the end of the dirt slope they just came down from, lingering at the base of the large rock with her arms slumped at her sides, hands balled into fists. She looks tense, but at a loss.

“Bayley?” the historian’s curiosity gets Sasha and Becky’s attention, the two sharing a look of mild distress mixed with confusion before following Charlotte who backtracks to where their fourth member stands.

As they approach, a lone, brownish and picked-clean skeleton comes into view, and Becky’s throat instantly grows sore. The bones are halfway tucked into the sand, some broken and others with knicks, skull lodged into the corner of the slope with the bottom jaw misplaced, and, behind them, there’s a message carved into the stone:

_“It’s not worth it.”_

The piece of rock he or she must’ve used to draw onto the stone is sat a foot away, at the base of the dusty incline, now that it’s been uncovered by Bayley tripping over it. One side is rounded completely, smoothed over until it feels soft, and they can tell that it took great effort and an immense amount of time ━ determination, _meticulousness_ ━ to carve the words into the boulder. Judging from the fact that the letters are almost embedded into the surface, particularly. They didn’t want the message to disappear through rain and other natural occurrences, and they’d make sure to get the point across despite likely losing themself along the way. This was an act of desperation. Hopelessness. _Agony._

And the women can tell by the simple lettering, the fact that whoever this is made sure to die by their message.

“Bayley?” Charlotte asks again, cautious while standing somewhat behind the woman. “What is it?”

Although she’s aware that skeletons aren’t the most decent reminder of what a treasure hunt could take ━ how it could ultimately end ━ this isn’t the first one they’d passed, and they all wonder why this one, specifically, has earned Bayley’s attention. Sure, the message behind him or her is unnerving, and it even causes Becky ━ someone who’s encountered plenty of aged bones and even recently passed lifeforms ━ to recoil, to turn away while side-eying the sight, but they hardly thought Bayley would be _this_ impacted. Currently, she looks like a shell of herself, like she’s not even there. As if the skeleton has taken something from her. And, still, they wonder what the reason is.

But that wonderance dissipates ━ all of that sadness, lost underneath a pile of regret and sourness ━ once they catch what’s fallen into the sand next to the skeleton: an old Blackberry cell phone, cracked and waterlogged.

Pirates didn’t have cell phones.

Becky freezes in place, eyes widening and mouth opening a fraction. On sight, all of her high hopes for the rest of the venture ━ the notion that she could delay this confrontation until the very end, or maybe even avoid it, full-stop ━ die, right before her eyes, as they topple into the sand next to the skeleton. Her heart thumps in her chest, simply waiting for something to happen. Waiting for Bayley to turn to her, maybe, to shoot her a look of something _beyond_ disappointment. For her to turn and quite possibly say she wishes to go home. For her to _demand_ it.

There’s no possibility of Becky bullshitting her way out of this one. She can’t even push herself to look less guilty through simple body language, and Bayley isn’t even turned to her yet.

Next to her, Sasha and Charlotte feel the same, their hearts swelling with sadness, clenched by a deathgrip ━ albeit their regret is primarily secondhand. Doesn’t lessen the feeling of ruined liability, though. They could’ve very well gone behind Becky’s back with knowledge that stowing away such acidic information would, in the end, leave Bayley more exposed than anything. They could’ve decided against “protecting” the brunette by covering her ears and eyes, and instead they could’ve given her what some would call “hard truths.” They could’ve come clean.

As far as Sasha and Charlotte are concerned, they’re equally as guilty; Becky was only the lie’s origin.

Bayley doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even flinch, and they can’t see her breathing, blinking, swaying, sniffling, _anything._ Her eyes just stare, head ducked, chin lowered, focused on the skeleton’s resting place. And, when her line of focus is broken due to Sasha bending down to search the sand near the Blackberry, she still doesn’t move, nor does she ask what the mercenary is looking for.

But Charlotte does with a sharp “What are you doing?” while sounding defensive, as if Sasha is being disrespectful in Bayley’s presence, as if she’s disturbing the grave.

After moving the Blackberry, she stands back upright with something pinched between her fingers. She’d previously seen a lone corner sticking out from below the device, partly covered by gravelly sand.

“Identification card. Most hunters and mercenaries have one for cases… like these,” the conclusion of her explanation falls to a rapid mutter, like she’s hoping Bayley doesn’t catch it in spite of standing inches away.

Bayley’s nostrils flare, but she keeps her eyes burning through the skull tucked into the corner of the rock.

“I have my own,” Sasha then confesses, vacant of emotion. “You have one, too, don’t you?” she turns to Becky who, otherwise, has been frozen in place and wishing to rid the situation of her bad choices.

“No, no, I…” her heart thumps in her ears. “Personal reasons,” she tries to answer their forming questions once she sees Charlotte’s head turn in her direction, Becky sealing her lips and keeping her eyes away until Sasha hands her the card.

Looking at it, her thumb rubs a tiny patch of sand away from the laminated name, which, in turn, only makes things worse on her conscience. At the man’s identity, her regret only gets stronger and the sadness she feels comes to the forefront of her mind in an instant headache, swallowing hard and feeling a spurt of nausea creep into her stomach. Still, Becky has to force the words to come out of her throat, clearing it before quietly speaking.

“This is one of the hunters who I studied for this exact trail,” against her will, she sounds like there’s a hint of amazement in her voice ━ as if her body is incapable of matching her felt emotion with her tone. “Before he━”

“━died,” Bayley fills in the blank, sounding angry and upset and everything in-between without moving. “Before he died on it. The trail,” she says while now turning to face them. “And he knew he was going to,” her finger stiffens and points at the message written upon the stone.

Becky doesn’t answer, remaining silent and, honestly, frightened since she’s never felt such coldness come from the most up-beat member of their group. She wishes to apologize, to take a step or two closer and explain that she didn’t want to hurt her. That she wanted to keep her safe, unharmed, untainted. It was a stupid decision, yes, but her heart was in the right place. She never would’ve intentionally dragged her through the metaphorical mud if she hadn’t thought she could get away with it.

But does that sound any better?

“Did he have a family?” Bayley asks quietly, monotonous yet hardly scratching the surface of how she sincerely wishes to react.

The treasure hunter remains staring at her, swallowing hard and raising her chin a little. Which, in hindsight, did the opposite of help diffuse the situation once Bayley begins to snap.

“Did he have a freakin'  _family?”_ it’s enunciated, emphatic with Bayley raising her voice in demand to know.

They all blink, stunned, when they hear the shattered sound of her entire, usual persona crumbling into the sand. Becky appears more scared than anything, almost shaking on unsturdy knees where she stands next to Sasha, Charlotte on the mercenary’s other side as they’re all opposing Bayley.

Becky licks her lips that gradually become drier with the passing tension, forcing out the hoarse words, “A wife and a daughter,” while trying to keep her overwhelming, personal thoughts at bay.

Charlotte and Sasha bow their heads, the historian’s demeanor portraying like she knew this would happen whereas the mercenary feels apologetic for going along with Becky’s deception. Sasha would give anything to erase how caught off-guard and demoralized the brunette must feel right now with her voice cracking and frustration boiling over. It’s been a long time coming, though Sasha fears that they’re all to blame, even if she wishes she could pin the entire weight on Becky. Whether or not she constructed the diluted story, they went along with it ━ no matter if they knew its wrongs and ultimate consequences.

Bayley shifts her jaw with watery eyes at the confirmation, then pushes the emotion down so she can ask more questions. Starting with something ambiguous yet, in her mind, the most direct.

“How many?”

No one moves to respond, so her eyes raise from the sand so she can look at each of them in hopes that _someone_ will give her an answer.

“How many people have died?” her burning gaze first lands on Becky, then shifts to Sasha, then Charlotte. “Not pirates, but… _people.”_

It’s clear that she’s dealing with a grim emotion that threatens to break her down piece by piece, but Bayley keeps her posture straightened in a false indifference; she tries to appear like this isn’t bothering her as much as it is, like the heartbreaking information of a wife and daughter left behind ━ sacrificed, in a way ━ has passed through her ears before toppling into the stirring ocean nearby.

Still, there’s silence that’s only disrupted by crashing waves. Sasha looks the most guilty as Bayley’s eyes finally stay landed on the mercenary for longer than a second, and Charlotte just breathes. Becky, internally, wishes she could crack a joke and say that pirates _are_ people, but the way Bayley now turns to her just shuts every thought down. As it _should._

“Don’t ignore me!” this time, Bayley takes a desperate step forward when she can’t bear their ignorance a second longer, eyes pleading. “I’m not a child! I deserve to know what I’m getting into since I’m already here.”

At her strained distress, Becky gathers the strength to shift her jaw and agree, “You’re right, you do,” before it’s punctuated with yet another pause.

No one wants to be the bearer of bad news, the three women mutually standing there looking awkward and as though they collectively wish they could take everything back or at least restart this bonding experience. All the way back to when they gathered in the airport, to when Becky jumped at the chance to say Sasha is merely their bodyguard, to even before that when she sought out Bayley at the race track and tried being as indirect about the adventure as she possibly could.

But, again, no one wanted to be the person to give Bayley some harsh reality about what it would take to pull this kind of heist off. They _still_ don’t want to be that person. No one wants to explain how it takes a lot of grit and moral sacrificing, even the acknowledgment that, in the end, you may not return home.

And, truly, if it comes down to that, then Becky really _should_ have told Bayley, remembering how the brunette explained her family’s closeness. That’s a thought she’s not willing to delve into. No way in hell. The _devastation_ it’d warrant…

Shit.

“How many?” the question is heard again, this time low and void of anger ━ which, in turn, might be even worse than if it had been gasped out through tears and gritted teeth. “How many people have died?”

“On this island?” Becky’s bounced question is whispered and sheepish.

“Doing _whatever-it-is_ that we’re doing,” her eyes bug, and they all stiffen.

Initially, the redhead goes to answer, but she has no idea how or where to begin. She doesn’t know the statistics about it, quite frankly. If she did, maybe even _she_ wouldn’t want to continue on this journey. There’s only so many casualties that one can ignore before those ghosts flock to haunt you, even if they don’t relate to what you’re after. They’re crude reminders that never heal, or fade into oblivion. If the treasure you’re after doesn’t get you killed first, those who’d shown mutual strain and obsession could very well be your downfall.

Her own silence is deafening and she can already sense Bayley’s aggravation bubbling, so her eyes move to Charlotte in hopes that the blonde will be her saving grace. That isn’t to say that it’s expected, though; Becky got into this by her own, stupid decision, so it’s likely that Charlotte will let it come back to bite her. On the other hand, she doubts that Charlotte knows about the number of fatalities, either, and it’s especially proven when the historian seals her lips and bows her head. Becky is about to think the same of Sasha, as well, but the mercenary is actually the one to take the blow for them.

Not to say that she _should_ be.

“How many miles per hour can one of those boats reach?” she very faintly gestures to where their vessel attempts to sway with the stormy waves, front end still tucked into the sand.

Bayley stares at it and thinks, calculates and digs into her memory, then answers, “Seventy.”

Sasha gives the number a sad, twisted grin before looking at Bayley and muttering, “More than that, then.”

The brunette takes a miniature step backward, stunned and paling at the response. But, contrary to what they would’ve imagined her to say ━ what they would’ve imagined her to do, like throw up, or pass out, or burst into tears ━ she clears her throat and raises her chin, then says, “Thank you for telling me.”

Her words are the least bit strengthened once they come out, leading Becky to understand that, inside, she’s not strong at all; she’s forcing a facade of decision and acceptance when she doesn’t have to. It’s okay to feel, but, then again, that type of sentiment is pretty hypocritical coming from the treasure hunter who keeps on a jacket of false bravado whenever in the face of dismay. A prime example being the current scenario, faced with consequences of her own making, yet she attempts to bottle up her apologies and tears because she refuses to plead for forgiveness when she doesn’t deserve it.

Which is why, in true fashion, Becky tries to ease some sort of tension by giving Bayley a semi-optimistic, “We’ll be finished before you know it, lass,” that, in the end, earns the opposite reaction.

Bayley stares at her and no one can tell if she’s further angered or simply stunned by the redhead being so passive, so apathetic and lifeless about the fact that this man lost himself and then his life, but their collective inquiry is answered when the driver walks away without another word.

She heads in the direction opposite of the boat, however. Her shuffling, heartbroken feet take her into a patch of weeds and stubby trees on the other side of the rock, and Becky presumes that she needs to take a breather. Additionally, she presumes that she, herself, fucked up even more than when the conversation started, and Sasha must have the same inkling once she turns to the Irish woman with an irritated, narrowed half-glare while saying, “I guess I’ll follow her.”

Becky wonders if she should propose that Sasha give her time alone, but, on the other hand, keeping her mouth shut is likely the best option. After all, Sasha’s words were finalized with an unspoken “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone” that Becky was able to detect instantly. She even gave the treasure hunter another let-down type of look that spoke volumes.

Truthfully, she wouldn’t be surprised if this was the last adventure that any of them will go on with her, and, even if it’s supposed to be her retirement run, that still hurts. Admittedly, she’s been enjoying herself. Even through the silence, the thick tension, the jokes at her expense… it’s been fun. She hasn’t had warm ━ or hot and cold ━ company for a while now, and unfortunately it’s become vital to her sane thoughts.

She wouldn’t be able to make it through this alone, not only because of how tedious and skill-oriented it’s been ━ additionally because she sincerely _cannot_ drive a boat ━ but also because the voices in her head would never allow her to hold onto that last shred of stability. With people around her, all personalities varying and blending, fitting like pieces to a puzzle, she’s been able to distract herself, smile a bit, show off for others, just… be _human._ Even when she’s not letting her emotions be shown on the surface, she’s still felt human. Not so numb, not so tired, not so upset at the world for ripping her last partner away.

Not so ready to die, either. Because God only knows she’s wondered if she’s cut out for making it through the rest of her years. The intrusive thought was brief, a while back, but that’s all it takes to get under your skin and seep into your bloodstream.

Being surrounded by people has been a good antidote, but, now that she’s damn near ruined it for herself, she’s starting to understand that admiration and care isn’t all peaches and rainbows. It’s hard work, and that’s why it’s worth it. It’s tedious, and grinding, and it has to be mutual. Overall, it’s give _and_ take, and, if you don’t give a little where you take, soon you’ll be handed a grenade.

Her eyes begin to water where she stands, still looking in the direction of where Bayley turned to wander behind the rock with Sasha following. She shakes her head once the stinging becomes too much, once she can’t fight it any longer and has to glance toward the sky before forcing an exhale, then decides to walk back to the boat where she’ll hopefully forget those fresh, mental wounds.

But, when she turns to where the boat is anchored, she remembers that Charlotte is still lingering around, and she has to pretend that she’s unbothered once more. She has to pretend that she’s not ready to collapse into the woman’s arms even though she knows angry hands would shove her shoulders backwards. She has to pretend that she’s not affected enough to fall onto her knees and sob into the sand at Charlotte’s feet because she knows that’s what the historian wants. To hear Becky say that she’s wrong, that she fucked up, that she’s an idiot, that she’s scum.

Realistically, Charlotte doesn’t, but, with the way the blonde speaks to Becky next, she sure as hell gives those menacing head-voices a pretty good argument.

“You should’ve told her.”

Becky hears the incredulous, irate tone in Charlotte’s voice, like she’s even more upset that the redhead is walking back to the boat without bothering to patch things up. The implication receives a guilty, sob-hiding laugh as Becky stops in her tracks and her shoulders slump without turning around.

“And said _what?”_ she turns to her, amusing the woman with an animated voice. “Let’s see… ‘I’m heading to a dangerous island to find a treasure that the likes of countless people have lost their lives _trying_ to do, but I’d like for you to come with me, _common citizen,_ because we’ll need a quick escape and I’m depending on you’? I don’t think that would’ve gone over any better than what happened just now did.”

“So, prematurely making people’s decisions for them is better than being honest?” Charlotte digs. “It may be _easier,_ but it’s not right, Becky. You lied.”

“I didn’t _lie_ to her. I just didn’t tell her the full extent of the truth, that’s all.”

“Is there really a difference?”

“Yes!”

 _“How?”_ her eyes widen as she eases her head forward. “You still made the decision for her!”

Her throat moves as if she’s bound to give Charlotte another laugh, but no avail. Instead, her tongue just curls behind her teeth and she ignores the argument, twisting back toward the boat and beginning to walk away again with anger filling her veins. She knows she fucked up, and she wishes she could take it back, make it up, mend everything, erase _herself_ if that’s what it would take, but she can’t. Especially not with Bayley hiding somewhere in the trees with Sasha. Even if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t be that simple, so what the hell does Charlotte expect her to do right now?

She huffs out a breath as her eyebrows furrow with a bold frown over her mouth, thinking she’s rid of the historian before she hears Charlotte’s voice from where she left her standing.

“You’re the same as you were years ago,” it’s not completely accurate, Charlotte thinks, but, shit, is she pissed right now; every time she thinks they’ve taken one step forward, it’s five steps back.

Becky stops walking but clenches her teeth, listening to Charlotte continue, “Except, this time, Bayley is the one you’re using as a test subject instead of me,” until she’s finally so dumbfounded ━ so _insulted_ ━ that she whips around against the sand.

“Woah, hold up,” Becky’s forehead creases as she approaches. “I know I fucked up, both back then and now. But never _once_ did I make _any_ choices for you. You were a reporter, and you asked me for a scoop. I delivered that. I didn’t plan for anything risky to happen, and right when I figured out how much danger we were in, I━”

“You left me on a dock in a foreign town,” there’s hurt in her voice, the remnants of shards obliterated from the source, and Becky pauses with her mouth opening and closing before she’s able to push an equally cracked response out.

“I wanted you to stay _safe,_ Charlotte,” she counters, tone calmer than it was moments ago. “And, sure, I’ll admit I don’t have the best way of showing that, and sometimes I put my foot in my mouth when I try to actually _explain_ my actions, but I made sure you weren’t in harm’s way,” a breath breaks her rant before she gives her a firm nod. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“You didn’t give me a choice in the matter!” the tall blonde stresses. “Did you ever ask me what I wanted? Did you ask if I was okay with continuing, or━or if I _wanted_ to be stranded on that dock while you cut the boat line and told the guide to drive off? I had no idea where you went, if you—” the words struggle to come out, not wanting to even relatively hint at Becky’s demise. “Not for _days.”_

It’s as though something within Becky’s body begins to shut down, or tumble to the bottom of her gut before it disintegrates. Suddenly, her limbs feel heavy and her eyes blink hard as she sighs. Her gaze looks beyond Charlotte’s frame, glossed over, reddened, and she stares at the message that the man had written before he died. In all honesty, Becky wonders if he was onto something, even without regards to Avery’s treasure: maybe it’s really _not_ worth it.

Any of it.

“I’m confused,” it’s tired, done, and Charlotte frowns at the words, the abrupt change in atmosphere, the fire draining from her eyes. “Do you want me to prioritize your safety, or do you not? Because, before we came here, it seemed like you did,” her overall demeanor is quiet, stumped and upset.

Pushing aside her own anger and pain, Charlotte feels a mutual heaviness on Becky’s behalf. It’s like something snapped within her brain until everything melted away. Her drive to continue, her energy to argue, to defend herself, to be standing here. All of it. For the first time in this overheated exchange, Charlotte wonders what’s going through the treasure hunter’s mind as the ice-thin words are threatening to crack between them.

Nonetheless, on her exterior, Charlotte merely shifts her jaw, and Becky ignores the growing soreness in her throat, the ache in her chest, with her next claim coming out hoarse, and perhaps even more silent. It’s hardly even heard.

“Now, Your Majesty, if you’d be so kind as to stop kicking me while I’m down...” her sentence drops off with her body turning back to the boat, beginning to walk that way as Charlotte stands in place, ducking her head and rubbing her eyes.

 

 

On the other side of the rock that separates the four women, Sasha chases Bayley down from when the brunette had walked away. Despite Bayley hearing the mercenary’s jogging footsteps behind her for a modest stretch, she doesn’t halt her pace until she’s approximately thirty yards away from where they departed, and that’s when Bayley stops and puts her hands on her hips. She searches the tip of the thicker treeline atop a cliff, lifting her chin and sucking in breaths of air.

“You good, Softy?” once Sasha catches up fully, her voice is a tad exhausted with deep inhales and exhales from jogging, but she’s also wearing sheer concern.

Bayley almost flat-out refuses to look Sasha in the eye, still scouring the treeline as she brashly half-questions, half-reminds, “Isn’t Becky paying you to watch her back?”

The mercenary gives her a sad, _“don’t be like that”_ kind of smile.

“She’s paying me to watch _everyone’s_ back, including yours.”

She has nothing to respond, so she looks down at her boots.

“We’ll make this a cakewalk, okay?” Sasha tries to help, putting on a sense of optimism that isn’t her strong suit ━ but it’s an attempt, regardless, and she hopes it’s valiant. “I’m not thrilled about being here, either. I knew it’d be hard, but…” her eyes drift around the area. “Something just rubs me wrong about this entire thing.”

“Maybe it’s all the death,” the navigator’s voice is still full of dismay and watery tones, remnants of a tear or two falling before.

Bayley’s own statement apparently gets the best of her, and she walks two feet over to her right so she can take a seat on an elongated stone. Her temples feel like they’re thumping and her throat is scratchy, but she focuses on her fingers in her lap as Sasha frowns and tries to sympathize. The purple-haired woman joins her on the stone soon, not belittling her remark but trying to pull Bayley back from the metaphorical edge when she gently says, “You can’t pay attention to that.”

“How can you not?” Bayley questions, strained, and the sound on its own makes Sasha wish she didn’t have to explain herself.

But, as she figures out how to, she flashes back to what Bayley had said on their way to the island, and how she expressed old stories about her family being affectionate ━ _huggable._ In that moment, it had only been deflected by Sasha’s tough exterior, keeping herself impervious to the likes of such fluffy concepts due to her _own_ past with family.

In short, her family was the opposite of Bayley’s, being cold and rigid, having no tact or no care for what others want, don’t want, like, dislike, hate, love, etc. Opinions? They weren’t an option in her house, and she’d learned it the hard way when she initially turned her cheek from the family business. She was never sure what she wanted to do in life, but she _knew_ that being a war machine wasn’t in her mind’s programming, nor did she want it to be. But that answer wasn’t accepted. It wasn’t allowed, or even an answer at all, in her father’s eyes. So, in the grand scheme of things, that ability to answer was taken from her before she even knew what an answer was. Before she could speak, or even stand. Before she was born, or conceived.

Rather quickly, once she _could_ speak, her opinions and choices turned into far-off dreams, memories she’d never even experienced, objects she had never felt the grooves of, and she was sculpted into the ideal soldier to continue on her aging father’s path in life ━ previously her grandfather’s, and _his_ father’s. Rather quickly, she lost ahold of the idea of self-worth and self-preservation, becoming the resemblance of a frigid robot, and, rather quickly, she’d assume the role she was built for ━ not to say it panned out.

“Childhood habit?” eventually, she answers through a partial question of her own following the spurt of deep thought, sad grin abound. “My dad owned a private military company, and he had me attend demonstrations. Painful conditioning, torturing traitors, and…” the recollection trails off, then is scrapped. “He bred me to take over the family business. Let’s just say that natural leadership only stretched so far with me. The company fell through, four years ago. On my watch,” she looks at her outstretched legs, pretending to be indifferent.

Bayley isn’t buying her passiveness, though. Not by a long shot. If she’s figured out one thing about Sasha in their short time together, it’s that the woman is nothing if not determined to prove what she’s made of. Not to others, necessarily, but more so to herself. It’s like she’s been making up for things in the past, attempting do-overs that’ll clear her conscience of whatever. Bayley wouldn’t be surprised if this entire trip had anything to do with fixing something that she’d dropped the ball about throughout her years.

“Is it a burden?”

The brunette’s curiosity gets Sasha to turn to her, lips parted before she has to blink and look elsewhere.

“It’s okay.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Bayley reiterates, straight-faced, and Sasha can’t find the heart to lie to her ━ certainly not after what transpired minutes ago.

“Yes, it is,” she admits. “I’ve had to relearn my place in this world. I still am.”

“And you think that place is being a mercenary?” the question is so to-the-point and knowing, Sasha just opening her mouth while they lock eyes with nothing coming forth to refute it. “Come on, Sash, I know you’re not just a bodyguard like Becky said. I’m more intuitive than you think.”

“I do what I have to do,” her words are choked up, mainly focused on ignoring the fluttering in her chest at the new nickname, swallowing down her body’s reaction that appears against her will.

The other woman nods.

“Bayley, listen,” Sasha tries, sensing the brunette climbing into her shell. “I’m not some animal like you’re imagining. I just know that there are things that have to be done━”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” she shakes her head heavily, frowning immensely. “I don’t want you uncomfortable with me.”

“Why not?” it’s asked with a shrug, and Sasha can’t answer after her mouth opens and closes.

The mercenary’s conflicted facade is eye-catching, Bayley thinks. It’s like Sasha knows what she wants to say, but isn’t sure how to word it. Or maybe something within is stopping her from confronting it head-on, leaving her tongue to now roll behind her teeth as her chin tilts downward. Bayley becomes softer when she sees how vulnerable the other woman portrays herself for the first time ever between them, her voice kind and gentle when she tries to get something more from Sasha by bowing her head, as if she wishes to look into frail eyes.

“Why would you care if I’m uncomfortable with you?”

Still, Sasha looks down with a clenching jaw, and a shaky laugh almost trips out from between her lips before they’re interrupted and the sentiment is fully dispersed.

“Are you okay?” Charlotte stands beside them, her presence unknown until now.

When they look up at her, she appears still regretful, like she wants to say more, but Bayley forces a tight-lipped smile following a small batch of hesitance. Charlotte can tell that it doesn’t diminish what Bayley truly feels, and that she’s trying her best to push that hurt aside without allowing it to inflict judgment upon Becky, but she still feels the need to say something about the situation.

“I’m sorry that she lied to you,” Charlotte confesses. “She’s not━”

“Don’t apologize for her,” Sasha interrupts, wishing to remain even-toned but failing when it comes out with a partial bite that causes the historian to press her tongue to her inner cheek.

After, she licks her lips, muttering, “We should get going sooner rather than later. The northern storm’s strengthening, and we don’t want to be on the water if it continues.”

Leftover apprehension causes Bayley to pause before she lifts herself from the rock, then Sasha does the same with Charlotte already turned to walk back to the boat which she watched Becky climb into, sit down, and stare at the floor between her feet. The redhead’s hands would run through her hair occasionally, looking frazzled and self-loathing as she shook her head with occasional eye-rolls. Throughout her motions, Charlotte wished she could approach the boat and quietly admit that they’ve all made some mistakes, but she knew it’d be lost on Becky. At least, in that moment. There’s no getting through to the fiery Irish woman when she’s so dead-set on being angry with herself.

Take that instance on their first expedition together, for example. Despite Charlotte’s desperate, comforting pleas and that dropped, sweet _“Becks”_ that tried to capture her attention, Becky just shook her head and continued to beat herself up. She’d made a mistake, that’s for certain, but, even then, she didn’t deserve the crap she’d given herself for something that anyone could’ve fallen into. Even Charlotte’s foot could’ve slipped onto that pressure pad, and she’s positive that Becky would’ve attempted to coddle her with words of support, as well.

But, as always, it’s one-sided with them. Becky wishes Charlotte would open herself up without needing to do the same. By now, it’s standard. Expected. Loathed. _Hated._ Shit, all Charlotte wants is for her to listen, to comprehend and to accept that, sometimes…

Charlotte swallows hard, glancing upward as she nears the boat.

...sometimes, Becky deserves to be loved.

 

* * *

 SUN., 3:50 P.M.

* * *

Slippery palms and curled fingers grip onto the worn-out indents in the stone beneath her torso, face-down, using weak arms to drag her limp body across the water-soaked and flash-reflecting ground. One hand nimbly reaches up a second time as more thunder echoes between jagged rocks, wrists shaking as her knee tries to help slide her weight closer to higher ground.

 

_“Hold on!”_

 

Her head is pounding, throbbing where she smacked it into one of those rocks, and there’s a second knick on her jaw where blood takes to gravity, constantly washed away by the heavy rain that pours down around her.

 

_“I can’t━”_

 

More water is spit out from between her lips, from her throat, before she presses her forehead to the rock beneath her, wishing to give up and let the sea pull her back out into its thrashing body. Her nails scrape at the texture beneath pruned fingertips, and a grunt exits her throat without lifting her head.

 

_“It’ll be okay.”_

 

After tasting mud on her tongue and spitting it out, she crawls more. She at least tries to. One knee, then the other, slinking herself up the stone and ignoring the searing pain that spreads throughout her body. Also ignoring the chilling, pin-and-needle numbness that follows with each movement.

 

_“No, no, no.”_

 

The ground lights up a neon blue color around her, and just about every other surface she can see reflects the flash once she lifts her forehead from a growing puddle. Blinks of lightning continue to threaten the land, hardly letting up from minutes ago, and another massive spot of thunder rips through, shaking everything.

 

_“We have to jump━”_

 

She winces at the memory.

 

_“Sasha!”_

 

Brown eyes seal tightly.

 

_“Bayley!”_

 

Her teeth clench.

 

_“Charlotte!”_

 

Becky forces herself onto her back and closes her eyes for a solid second, wet hair sticking to her face, grimacing before propping herself onto her elbows with a painful whine being muffled by rushing water.

“One… two…” the count is mouthed before she falls backwards onto the stone again, gingerly lifting her vibrating hands in front of her eyes before slapping them into the water beside her body. “Limbs are still there,” it’s mumbled, the treasure hunter then licking her lips as her chest rises and falls rapidly.

Her eyes try to remain open but a struggle ensues. The rain is beating down against her features and threatening to shoot straight into her sight, also back into her throat where she just regurgitated at least three ounces of tainted saltwater and sand. She can’t stay here. Not this close to the frivolous, crashing waves while in the eye of a storm.

“Fuck,” she exhales. “Gotta get up,” her right elbow pushes her upward with a groan, but it morphs into a shout of pain when she realizes that her right half is what smacked into the stone full-force.

She pushes through it, nonetheless, and places her palms on the slick rock so she can heave herself up onto her feet. Once standing, her ribs are the newest feature to scream in agony, Becky buckling onto her left knee while grabbing for her side before she can stand again.

“Move,” the treasure hunter pushes herself through it. “Gotta move,” she limps a tad, though shakes it off for the most part.

Lying nearby in a soggy heap is her backpack, entirely soaked but intact as it’s thrown onto one of her shoulders with a lifelessness about it. The added weight bears down on her back, her clothes already causing her movements to stagger. Her weak legs then bring her up onto the new island’s coast without Becky being able to see more than fifty yards in front of her, especially with her hair matted to her face until she all but slaps it behind her ears. It’s torrential downpouring, and there’s a thick fog amongst the island, providing even less of a viewing field despite whichever direction she turns with her breath coming out smoky. And, although it’s still daytime, the only light she’s given is when another bolt hits the water, yet that’s the least bit comforting.

Little grunts topple out of her mouth as she carefully walks further away from the furious ocean, eventually coming to a standstill once she’s on a slab of rock that’s a few feet taller than sea level. It’s in hopes that she’s able to find what she’s searching for through the stormy weather, eyes opening wider as she extends her neck a bit with her breath held, but no avail. She’s at a loss with her teeth finally baring, eyes shimmering, and she has no idea where to start looking for the others. She has no idea at all.

She stands there, staring out at the grey picture in front of her.

No Charlotte, no Bayley, no Sasha.

No boat.

No nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's...... somethin'. 
> 
> Before anything else, and I'll be reminding everyone at the beginning of next chapter (just in case), a forewarning: there's some graphic descriptions in the next update. Not too, too bad, but this is a fic with quite some violence, so yeah, just prepare! Never out here tryna be the person who triggers someone, so be wary. 
> 
> Anyway, I hate to do this /now/, but unfortunately I was sick for a good chunk of this week and got very little writing accomplished, so I'm slacking in the revision department. Therefore, next update likely won't come as quickly as they've been coming because I'd rather pause right here before we dive into everything else that's uber insane. But, to tide you over: don't worry, you don't have to wait long to know the fate of everyone, nor will you have to wait long before things snap again, and again, and again. The pace finally picks up after this, and there's nowhere left to hide. Dialogue will be picking up, as well, which is something I'm so happy to say because I've missed the lengthy conversations and explanations.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for bearing with my mindless speaking. I'll try to get you the next chapter ASAP (without rushing it), so just sit tight, my friends.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that this chapter will have a lil graphic detail in it, but not too much. Still, I promised I'd warn!
> 
> And, yes, I'll explain why I'm here early once you get to the bottom note. For now, have fun!

SUN., 3:52 P.M.

* * *

She stands at the very edge of that same rock, hovering above sea level, eyes glistening and posture small, confused, lonely, and lost. It’s like she’s an ant compared to the island’s mass, and the fog, the rain, the wind, the _everything_ makes it ten times worse. Makes it all ten times as hopeless, and outright terrifying.

Through the greyness, her eyes can only see so far along this side of the island, which, by all means, is so lengthy that she’s sure her teammates must’ve crashed into its gravely shore just the same as she did. But there’s no sign of anyone, no sound of life or flicker of anything in the distance, nor their shipwreck, and part of Becky wonders if she should sprint back toward the ocean, flail her hands this way and that until diving into the waves in search of them beneath the water. Grimly, she comes to the conclusion that, if they were to still be trapped below a thrashing sea, they’d already be gone.

Panic creeps up her throat and through her bruised limbs, her breathing picking up while her eyes widen and a tear slips down the side of her nose until it blends with rainwater upon her cheeks. With purpose, she raises her hands to her mouth, cupping them slightly and shouting with everything she can muster.

“Bayley!”

She takes her hands an inch away, still lingering in the air, holding her breath so she can listen.

Nothing but the static of rain, and the half-assed echo of the brunette’s name bouncing off the taller rocks.

“Sasha!”

Again, nothing but heavy precipitation that seems to arrive in thicker waves whenever she tests her luck. A coughing fit interrupts her exertion, hunching over and choking a time or two before staying in the same position.

With each passing minute of not seeing anyone through the fog and rushing water, her heart sinks further from of her chest and into the pit of her stomach. Staring at the ground, her breathing picks up through an agape mouth, those breaths turning shallow when she tries sucking in brief spurts of air in panic until her inhales and exhales are tripping over each other. It’s like she’s on the brink of having a full-blown anxiety attack in the midst of the storm, still out in the open and vulnerable to lightning.

Becky knows it won’t do any good, though. Standing here, panic-stricken with gasping breaths and bulging eyes, hunched over with her hands on her soaked knees, just trying to formulate proper thoughts and makeshift calmness about the situation. It won’t do any good at all.

She licks her lips in pause, feeling dizzy before shaking her head. Then, as she straightens her back, her mouth reopens with more, truncated gasps of breath being taken before cupping her hands around her mouth one more time.

“Char━” initially, it comes out as a hoarse whisper, desperate and broken, before she can gather more strength to shout. “Charlotte?” this time, it’s in the form of question, the first signal of giving up.

Eyes still tracing the stubby cliffs at the edge of the shore opposite to the water, there’s no movement anywhere. She can’t even catch a glimpse of trees swaying back and forth with the wind’s force, or wildlife running across the pebbly sand, or anything besides crashing, foamy waves, pouring rain, and lightning strikes. Nor does she hear anything besides the dangerous weather, the threatening cracks of thunder that invite more flashes of neon blue across the land.

There’s no sign of life at all, or anything to dismantle the agonizing notion that she’s alone.

“Shit,” her mutter is full of anguish, grimacing and trying her hardest not to cry at both the emotional and physical toll that stings her limbs. “Fucking shit,” she repeats for good measure. “This is all my fault, isn’t it? This… this is mine.”

A widened, realizing and stunned gaze bores into the ground beneath her boots as her body proceeds to get drenched. It’s like she’s become numb to the rain’s chill mixed with the gusty wind in a type of self-loathing trance, eyes unblinking, jaw slack. Total disbelief. In all honesty, she feels herself settling into an idea of throwing in the towel, raising the iconic white flag, giving up entirely, all of the above. She feels like curling into a ball and remaining catatonic against the stone until the water level rises so high that it reaches this slab of rock and washes her away or drowns her on the spot.

She feels like this is the end of something.

And she knew it, too. While she sat in the corner of the parked boat waiting for Bayley and Sasha to return from taking a breather, all she could think about was how everything’s gone wrong in such a brief amount of time. Scratch that: perhaps it wasn’t a brief amount of time, but things have certainly gone wrong for a particular stretch. On this adventure, yes, but even before that when she lost the one person who was able to understand her. Becky never had to say what she was thinking before Paige knew, and she either gave the redhead some tough love, some gentle encouragement, or just plain said her own version of “Okay, this is what’s happening, but we’re going to make it.”

Not everyone is bound to know what she’s thinking, and Becky comprehends that, however it’s easier when people do because God only knows she has the hardest time putting her thoughts in order. She has a hard time displaying what she’s thinking, what she’s wondering, what she needs to say, what she’s trying _not_ to. Charlotte may pick up on subtle things here and there, but, even then, she hardly voices it; she hardly calls Becky out on it, but sometimes that’s what the treasure hunter needs. A nudge, supposedly.

Charlotte used to call her out on it, but the redhead assumes that died back in their first venture together, probably when the shrapnel fell around the two of them floating in that body of water. The historian’s desire to figure out what Becky is thinking ━ her _care_ to do so ━ died that day, sunken to the bottom of the sea. A symbolic conception that’s hitting all too close to home, right now.

Even so, even with no one opting to attempt to figure out what Becky’s harping on, she can’t blame any of them, and that’s also something she comprehends. She wouldn’t _want_ to blame them, either. Bayley has every right and reason to be angry with her, to be broken by the things that she’d been left untold. Sasha does, too, and Charlotte. After all, Becky had roped them into a scheme that she knew wouldn’t be left untouched, in the end. She knew Bayley would find out at some point, but, again, she tried delaying the inevitable for as long as able. She tried delaying the _betrayal_ of it all.

Deep down, Becky believes this storm was her punishment. She believes that, as they set out onto the sea again and they watched the clouds lighten, the rain thin out, the thunder disperse… it was all lying in wait. It wanted her to get comfortable, to get used to the idea that the sun was on the brink of smiling down on her with a grand beam shining on the patch of land where Avery’s treasure is hidden. A glorious hint from whoever sits above.

The universe wanted her to feel like everything was going to be okay.

Until she realized it wasn’t.

With five minutes left to their journey, with the island in close sight, everything happened so fast, so indescribably swift, that they were all left in a panic. A sudden bolt of lightning had hit the sea not too far from where they were driving, cracking against a piece of stone in a way that made them wonder if someone was violently tossing those bolts in aim for their vessel, specifically. Immediately, Becky’s face paled and Sasha’s eyes widened. Charlotte stood up from where she was sat against the side of the boat, and she grabbed onto the railing at the cabin’s backside. Bayley, meanwhile, tried steering as well as she could against the oncoming, fierce rain that piled onto the windshield faster than the wipers could erase it, and the hand gripping the throttle pushed forward as far as possible when the Irish woman dreadfully instructed, _“Step on it. Now.”_

 _“We’re going as fast as we can go, Becky,”_ Bayley argued, jaw clenched, teeth showing, and eyes focused with her knuckles damp from mist seeping through the windshield.

Jagged rocks surrounded the island as if a natural defense mechanism, a natural barrier or a prison’s wall that they’d have to pass. Their first obstacle to endure, now that she thinks of it. They were pointed like giant canine teeth, dark in color yet so hard to see with immense fog cluttering the mass of land. If steering between each of them wasn’t a gamble enough already, the final piece of their fate would be sealed by one of the boat’s dual motors failing to continue, small puffs of smoke coming out while Becky ran to check on it, kicking it severely while Charlotte yelled, _“It’s no use. It’s dead.”_

A second, giant bolt came close, shocking the water and rocking the entire boat until it tipped so far to the left that they thought it wouldn’t flatten back against the untamed waves.

“We’re _going to be dead if we don’t fucking━”_

Sasha was cut off when Bayley clipped into a rock and shouted, _“Hold on!”_

 _“I can’t━”_ another rock was brushed.

 _“It’ll be okay,”_ through rushing water around them, Becky tried to keep the peace and remain calm, but Sasha was having none of it, pacing the desk and running her hands through deep purple, wet and tangled strands. _“It’ll be okay,”_ she repeated as she looked over the side of the boat right as a sharp, drilling sound caught her attention at the far end of their vessel, only to realize that the second and final engine had burnt out.

 _“No, no, no,”_ Becky ran over to it, pushing the bottom of her palms against her temples until the boat was thrashed again, and that’s when Bayley made a collective decision.

_“We have to jump.”_

_“Are you out of your mind?”_ Sasha snapped. _“We don’t even know how far from the shore we are.”_

 _“Just trust me, okay?”_ the brunette was pleading, angry, with water covering her face and a giant frown curving her mouth downward with evident hurt still caught up within her features.

It was clear to everyone that it was also an underlying jab, as if Bayley was finally displaying her mistrust in everyone else for going over her head with something. As if Bayley was finally displaying her mistrust in _Sasha,_ directly. And the mercenary noticed instantly, her throat becoming caught up with words she couldn’t get out over the roar of the swirling weather, and she’s never been one for apologies, in the first place.

But she knew that Bayley deserved one, and that’s what brought about an expression that portrayed how she was so, _so_ close to being broken into tears by severe remorse. That need to apologize, as well. Becky noticed it all from where she stood, witnessing the slump of Sasha’s shoulders in defeat, Bayley still facing her with an immovable facade. The treasure hunter was on the brink of interrupting their moment ━ their unspoken tension in the wrong place, at the wrong time ━ before everything, from then on, happened in the blink of an eye.

Their boat had been rag-dolled into a nearby rock, thrown with ease and flipped entirely onto its head with Becky having no time to stop it. Having no time to protect the blonde that she had reached for at the last, split second when she caught view of the massive wave hurdling into them right before it swallowed them whole. Having no time to grab onto Sasha and Bayley, either, or figure out where any of them landed after they fell into the dark water. She called out their names as she bobbed there in the rising and falling sea, trying her best to keep her chin above the surface but gasping for air once she saw another wave heading straight for where she was floating.

After that, it was lights out ━ not entirely, but she felt a fuzziness as her eyes were cluttered with floating, black dots, and her head was spinning so hard that she lost direction under water. She’d smacked flat against one of those jagged rocks, her ribs taking the brunt of the force while the sea pushed her further and further toward the shore, and, thinking back, she’s surprised she wasn’t knocked unconscious in the process.

She supposes it’s one of the minor things she should call herself lucky for, but is that _really_ lucky?

As for the others, the Irish woman imagines that they all were tossed multiple feet into the air, praying, before landing in a similar fashion how she was with her orientation to the surface messed up. But it’s not something that she enjoys thinking about. It’s a miracle that she didn’t fall flat onto one of the pointed rocks, honestly, and it’s heartbreaking that she has no idea if that was the fate of any of the others. Realistically, who knows if Sasha made it. Or Bayley. Or, _God,_ Charlotte.

After everything, she couldn’t bear to lose Charlotte. Not that way. Not _any_ way.

She needs to find them. There’s no other option. No _if_ ’s, _and_ ’s, or _but_ ’s about it. One way or another, she needs to find them, and nothing is going to stop her from seeking them out. No internal blame, no storm, no aching limbs. She refuses. In fact, she bargains with herself as she blinks hard and stands up onto still-swaying legs, making herself the deal that she can quit if she wants, but only _after_ she finds her friends. Teammates. Acquaintances.

Whatever.

No matter what, she owes it to them to push through. To grit her teeth and fight against the endless pain that ails her. To reach her limits in determination to not let them stay lost forever, to not let them wander too far from the shore in hopes that they’ll find her, just as much. It’s up to her to construct their reunion, to find them safe and sound and keep them beneath her wing until all is said and done.

Her eyes peer through the rain as it lightens up a smidgen, but not enough to see further than now seventy yards ahead. It gets a breathy grunt, mainly derived from climbing up another stone yet keeping her eyes along the beach in case she’s able to spot one of them mutually searching for her. On the other hand, Becky hopes that they’d all been taught the rule of climbing to higher ground, away from the sea and wild rocks, and that’s what she wishes to depend on. She knows they’re smart, and ━ even taking Bayley’s minimal camping skills into account ━ they should be aware that higher ground is the best bet when facing a storm like this while surrounded by rising water. It’s common knowledge.

Right?

She makes a face and continues to climb, careful of her side but wincing whenever it causes her motions to halt for an extra second or two. For the most part, the hunter tries to delay as minimally as possible, not wishing to use up any spare time in searching for her friends. Who knows if time is precious, running thin. Who knows if they need her to find them immediately. She can’t focus on her wounds right now. Not when there could be lives at stake. Not when it’s her fault.

Her backpack tugs on her shoulders as she climbs, and her heavy clothes do the same. Equally a pain is her damp hair, knotted at the ends and occasionally slapping against the skin of her face until she shakes it away from her eyes. It dangles in front of her line of sight, but she has to ignore it as much as she can. Instead, she focuses her attention on where she grabs as most rocks feel slick, like they’re bound to push her off the cliff and back down onto the soggy beach without remorse. A rumble of thunder shakes the stone beneath her palms, like it’s coming from within the stone, itself. Ultimately, it causes her to move faster, propping her feet onto occasional hand-holds similar to on the former island.

Lightning follows the rumble, and she stiffens where she pauses, leaning her forehead against the stone and simply praying that she’s not caught by the menacing streaks. In all honesty, she’s never been so close to lightning strikes, and it’s something she’ll never be able to grow used to. They’re sporadic, wild, free, and threatening. Too untamed for her tastes, but she’s been referred to with the same terms before. It only puts everything into further perspective, but that’s a thought for another time. Another day, even.

She’ll be damned if she’s exposed to another lightning strike while scaling the side of the cliff ━ A.K.A. the spurt that lights up the sky right as she’s all but throws herself onto the next rock slab’s edge, belly down with her hands covering her head in fear.

The position reminds her of when she launched herself into that white van, years ago, minutes after Paige’s hand left hers as her partner fell lifelessly to the ground. When she dove into the van to avoid gunfire, face first on the floor with her hands covering her head like so. The following rumble of thunder doesn’t help, either, mimicking the gunfire that sounded deeper within the prison, bouncing off the walls, and Becky’s body stiffens in place.

The remembrance stings her brain, eyes clenched closed with her face contorting in an effort to push the memory out from between her ears. A breath is released once she manages to refocus, lifting her chin to notice the thick foliage that’s in front of her.

“I made it,” her breath is shaky, and she mouths the same thing over and over until she’s pushing herself to her feet and swaying.

Turning around with shuffling, short steps, her eyes look out at the view. Here, she’s able to see more as she’s above the mist that clouds the base of the cliff and the sea. Looking straight down, it’s a drop of approximately fifty feet, yet she’s only standing upon the smaller platform of this side of the island. At the sight, her heart begins to pound, but not as much as it does when she hears a sudden snap echo from the foliage behind her, and she’s whipping around to find absolutely nothing. Her eyes search the shades of greenery, the various plants and scattered trees that create a cluster of vegetation covered in droplets of water.

The sound of another twig breaking follows, a thicker branch, more toward her left while a little further away, and Becky swallows hard. Although the likelihood of it being wildlife is high, her feeling of being exposed ━ also achy and weighed down ━ takes over her judgement and sends her paranoia into overdrive. Because of that paranoia, she quickly throws her backpack onto the ground with a thump so she can search its contents with frantic, pruney fingers.

Much to her misfortune, there’s a puddle of water held within her bag as her nostrils flare, but she shakes her head. There’s no use in getting upset about something that’s the least of her problems right now. Refocusing, her hand finds what she went looking for, holding the black pistol in her palm and feeling her throat tighten in dismay before she firmly wraps her hand around it and psyches herself up to ignore the burning that she feels against her damp skin. Oddly enough, the pistol also feels familiar, and maybe that, too, is scary. Worrisome, more like. Unwanted.

Pushing her moral-driven woes further away, she zips her backpack up with one hand while keeping the gun in her other, throwing the satchel back onto her shoulder and standing up straight. Still, the weapon singes her palm and she feels like it’ll scar her fingers in due time, but her head shakes again as she grips it with both hands, walking into the foliage carefully once she finds a muddy path.

Brown eyes scope out the area little by little. Cracked lips remain parted with small passes of dry air puffing out. Her footsteps come in splashes, also the sound of sludge pooling around her boots as rain beats against the ground in a consistent pattern. With an overhead canopy of trees keeping most of the rain at bay, she can still hear the drizzle hitting leaves around her, all sounding hollow. In any other circumstance, Becky would find it calming. Serene and enjoyable. Even the frogs croaking and occasional bugs chirping in the distance provide a sense of composure. A peace of mind.

But here, Becky is the least bit calm, her shoulders blocky, tense, and arms locked straight as she holds onto the gun with both hands grasping its bumpy handle, fingers clasped slightly with her eyes constantly observing the new surroundings.

Truthfully, she doesn’t have a clue of what she’ll stumble upon here, but it’s nothing she wants to find out in the rain, or when she’s pained, or when she’s alone.

A clearing comes into view, simply a rounded-out area where no trees or plants are grown, only mud and occasional blades of grass poking through the thick substance. Her motions pick up speed so she can make it into the clearing, standing in the space after five more seconds and finding multiple paths jutting out from the center.

Thinking with a frown, her body turns in the direction toward where the foliage gets thicker ━ deeper into the island ━ her calculative gaze studying the various greens tinted by grey weather. Beyond the foliage, she sees nothing else, and wonders when it stops and when something else starts. It could take her into a sinkhole, for all she knows, or a cavern beneath the island where, maybe, Avery’s treasure is kept. But that’s not what she’s looking for right now, and, honestly, the thought of falling underground is the least easy to stomach while she’s on her own.

Her breathing begins to pick up again, mouth staying dropped open an inch while her tongue traces her teeth in thought. She twists back in the direction from which she entered the clearing, posture overly confused with a giant frown curving her mouth downward once her lips seal. With the fog rising up onto the island, winding in and out of the trees like a vaporous river, her sense of direction is suddenly being toyed with, altered and impaired, and her panic begins to creep in.

Which is why, once she hears the sound of rapid, muddy sloshing running toward her back, she whips around and points her gun at whatever it is.

“Jesus, Becky.”

Or _whoever_ it is.

Charlotte exhales with wide eyes, mildly aghast and stiffened in place while Becky’s face drops, eyes close, and her hands lower cautiously.

“Why is your gun drawn?” ocean-colored, bloodshot eyes stare at her in surprise muffled by confusion.

It’s a complexion that hides her weaknesses, her equal vulnerability that’s been targeted by the island’s already-occurring events. Becky can tell, but she doesn’t mention it. Truly, Charlotte’s question is valid, but she supposes that outright saying, “I’m paranoid,” wouldn’t make things much better. Especially in terms of her original nickname being “Loose Canon.”

Becky’s eyes drift to the weapon in her hand, turning her wrist a time or two as if she doesn’t remember equipping the gun. Initially, she isn’t able to form a solid answer that’s relatively truthful, so an odd “Eh…” trips out from between her lips before she’s able to clear her throat and mumble, “Precaution,” while sliding it into the holster on her belt.

Once her chin lifts to lock eyes with Charlotte, they both take a moment getting lost. Not necessarily in each other, but in the overwhelming fact that they’ve both overcome an unkempt sea and a spur-the-moment storm, yet they’ve somehow made it back to each other. They’ve somehow survived. They crawled up the clumpy sand with simple scratches and bruises, tangled hair and wet clothes, but they’ve survived. It’s almost surreal, and their expressions reflect the idea.

The treasure hunter’s eyes appear sad, not straying from assessing Charlotte’s appearance as she mirrors Becky in a disheveled manner. Her hair is wavy from the water, a dirty blonde color, with some strands matted to her forehead. The white tank-top she chose to wear is thoroughly soaked from top to bottom, a dime-sized hole ripped into the bottom left of its hem, backpack slung over her shoulders, and her skin glistens. Becky frowns in regret once she notices the reddened abrasions the blonde had likely acquired from the boat toppling over before their journey through the island’s stray rocks. The thought causes her lips to absentmindedly part with a faint demeanor that portrays how emotionally wrecked she feels at the idea of Charlotte enduring something so miserable, so unknowing in conclusion until you’ve finally reached the shore. She’d do anything to erase that memory for the woman in front of her.

Meanwhile, the historian does the same in studying her partner, visibly swallowing hard with a glimmering focus and shaking hands by her sides. She observes how ruined Becky looks, how her tactical vest is hardly in place, her backpack hangs off one shoulder, and she’s visibly favoring one side where a small stain of blood is diluted by water against her rib-cage area. The sight causes her to look back up to meet Becky’s eyes, then catching a better view of the small gash on her jaw that’s already trying to heal itself. She feels a sudden desire to trace her thumb against the minor wound, to lift her arm and simply touch it with gentle fingertips to even see if Becky is real after not knowing if she’d see her again, but she keeps herself stuck in place.

In front of her, Becky doesn’t pay attention to where Charlotte’s eyes burn into with intent, her body feeling as though it’s shaking with necessity for the blonde’s comfort. All she wants to do is lunge forward and hug the historian before holding on for dear life. To mutter the tiniest apologies into her ear while curling her fingers against the woman’s back in a desperate attempt to cling as much as she can. To pretend that━

She legitimately breathes out in relief when Charlotte is the one to clear the distance between them with an engulfing, near-hopeless hug that binds Becky’s torso with warmth and a matched desperation. Becky can almost feel the blonde’s heart thumping through her chest, and she makes sure to return the sentiment with shaking hands and a hope that, once they depart, Charlotte won’t slip away again. And it’s a thought that’s shared by the historian, herself, as there’s so much she wants to say that simply won’t come out, so she settles on the hug that lasts another ten seconds in the midst of pouring rain.

It’s only when they back up that they’re closer than before, and Charlotte’s mouth opens and closes with her tongue wishing to confess the quiet, thankful “I didn’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t survive” that unfortunately never makes it out into the open.

But she can tell that Becky understands, and that the sentiment is returned in volumes. The redhead even gives her a tiny nod in acceptance while her voice refuses to be heard, as well, right as their reunion is broken and their arms are falling back to their sides.

Because, once Becky gives her that slight, understanding nod, they’re both spinning on their heels in the direction of a sharp whistle that’s followed by a reddened, firework-like spark that bursts above the island. With a mental calculation and hung-open mouth, the hunter decides that its origin is roughly a hundred or so yards north of them, and Charlotte turns back to her just as Becky whispers, “The emergency flare,” in realization.

Her eyes are widened, dumbfounded in awe right before Charlotte taps her on the hand and gives her a gentle reminder that they need to move quickly. At that exact moment, her awe is scrapped, and replaced with fierce determination. Inertia moving forward at light-speed, the trees and plants meshing into a blur as they skip the idea of jogging and go straight to running ━ _sprinting_ ━ through the thinning jungle. While paying attention to her footing, Becky manages to toss her backpack onto both shoulders so she can move easier and as fast as possible, keeping herself balanced with her arms bent, swaying, and tongue trapped between her teeth.

The pain in her side doesn’t retreat as she runs, though her knees regain a sense of reality and her beloved adrenaline bubbles over as she pushes forward with every ounce of strength that she can gather. A time or two, her feet nearly slip out from under her when they’re running through thicker mud, and she can say the same of Charlotte who has to avoid a fallen tree by vaulting over it and landing back into the thick substance with a minute slide. Luckily, they both manage to say upright, and sprint along the winding path within the island’s foliage while rain flies at their faces and attempts to stunt their sight-line. Once a denser portion of plant life obstructs their path, they have to weave through vines and leaves with their hands and forearms, expressions scrunched in valiant effort not to be stumped, but it soon lessens until they spot another clearing up ahead.

Generally, Becky makes sure to keep up with the historian who runs in front of her, riding high on an everlasting spurt of energy. The redhead refuses to lose Charlotte again. Not today, and hopefully not ever. Today, she’s learned the hard way that she’s not cut out for that type of panic anymore. Maybe she wasn’t back then, either, but her heart is more tender than it used to be. Another important person, lost?

No. She won’t accept it.

Ten seconds pass before they’re finally trampling into the clearing and onto less-watery dirt, heads spinning and trying to find the source of the flare which would’ve come from nearby, and their questions are answered just as Sasha comes into view. Her arm is wrapped around Bayley’s waist, the brunette holding onto the mercenary’s neck for more support as she looks worse for wear. They can immediately see Bayley’s features contorting in severe pain, eyes sunken in, and she’s putting no weight on her right leg. Her pants and shirt are both tattered on the same side, and the plaid button-up from around her waist is now washed away in the sea.

Charlotte and Becky stand there in shock. Clearly, Bayley took the most extreme hit.

“She needs some bandages, _now,”_ Sasha stresses with a deep, wavering and upset voice. “There was a flare in the boat’s emergency box. I found it on the shore after…” she trails off, and Becky can tell that she’s feeling frantic, being sent into overdrive.

Bayley whines at the memory and the action of their motions coming to a standstill, Charlotte muttering, “Shit,” and rushing over to the two. Her backpack is thrown to the ground as she dashes forward, instantly kneeling on the ground and gently grasping onto the navigator’s thigh. Gingerly, she lowers the woman’s leg into a normal, extended position, being cautious not to disturb the fresh wound. Despite Charlotte’s careful efforts, the tenuous motion of easing her leg into a new position gets another pained face from Bayley, and the historian wishes to apologize because she can tell it’s all so fucked up. All so awful and harrowing, even hard to stomach.

“Knee and shin,” the mercenary states once she can tell Charlotte is searching for the blood’s source, hands tentative in regards to where she’s feeling, tracing, and the blonde nods at the direction.

With two fingers, she observes the jagged cut and its surrounded, scraped and irritated skin, the gash being significant in a length of five inches but thankfully not too deep. While observing, she hardly puts pressure on Bayley’s shin, but the brunette still turns her head away. The knee is less punctured, less scraped and afflicted, but still tenderized, and each wound has gravel embedded in the surface. Charlotte makes a face with her teeth bared. It’s not going to be pretty, but she knows the small pieces of rock need to come out. Something tells her that Sasha knows, too, which is why the mercenary gulps when Charlotte’s eyes drift upward for a split second. She refocuses back on the wound within the following tick of a clock, thinking aloud.

“There weren’t any spare medkits in the emergency box?”

“No,” Sasha takes a short, hasty breath, then answers Charlotte’s question, “just a flare, a few packs of batteries, and ammo.”

Behind them, Becky’s heart sinks, and her face actually drops with her shoulders slumping to the maximum amount they can. She _knew_ she forgot to finish packing something. She _knew_ there was something missing, something vital that could potentially change the course within their trip ━ in a better way. Something that could save them, in the long run, if something were to happen.

God, who forgets the spare _fucking_ medkit?

She lifts her arms and presses her hands against the side of her head like she had once the boat’s second and final engine gave out, overly stressed and pissed at herself.

No one flings judgment or anger in her direction, though, ignoring her constant self-loathing that they could probably hear from where she lingers feet away from everyone else. Instead, ignoring the mistake entirely, Charlotte extends her right arm in the treasure hunter’s direction, palm open, without taking her eyes away from Bayley’s leg.

“Becky, I need you to get me bandages.”

Without a word, the Irish woman throws her backpack onto the ground after flipping it off her shoulder, her fingers then missing the zipper a time or two before she gets a handle on it and opens the main compartment. Over the sound of drizzling rain, the other women can hear her rifling through it, harder items clunking against each other, tin cans and harder plastic thunking, with a franticness derived from her panicked motions. Soon, all the sounds stop, and Becky feels even more at a loss.

She now realizes that she forgot more than just the _spare_ medkit.

“I don’t have any in here,” her voice is dreadful but no less alarmed. “Sasha?”

“I━I only have rags, I think.”

“Give them to me,” Charlotte demands, again without taking her eyes from the cut on Bayley’s shin.

The mercenary’s eyes raise in Becky’s direction and the redhead picks up on the hint rather quickly. She runs over to where Sasha holds up Bayley, taking over the other woman’s support system and moving to slip her arm around the brunette’s waist. With the way Bayley sways, however, Becky doesn’t think their position while hold whenever Charlotte manages to clean her wounds, so the hunter looks this way and that, peering over her shoulder before seeing a large rock a few steps behind them.

“Charlotte, we’re backing up a few,” Becky notifies and receives a nod.

Bayley tries looking over her shoulder but can’t, deciding to trust Becky who eases her down onto the rock, leg extended. Once situated, the Irish woman still doesn’t let go of her partner, instead holding a firm grip on Bayley, and, internally, she wishes to lean her forehead against the brunette’s while apologizing for getting them into such deep shit that it nearly cost the driver her leg ━ or her life.

She stays quiet, realistically, and Charlotte turns to Sasha who rifles through her bag.

In the distance, the wind begins to pick up with a whistle and rustling leaves, creating a colder atmosphere despite the time only being mid-afternoon. The rain lessens as they sit there, as well, but it still hits the leaves above them, acting like a thin awning above the clearing that keeps a majority of the precipitation from soaking them more. It’s a good thing, actually, especially in Bayley’s case. They don’t want any more tainted water seeping into her scrapes, not when they’re so fresh and absolutely unhealed. Not to mention how much they must sting, like razor burn along the bend of your knee and down the front of your leg.

Suddenly, Becky hears a whimper sneak out of Bayley’s throat, and she pulls her closer.

“You’ll be okay. It’s just a scratch,” she tries to comfort to the best of her ability, but Charlotte glances at Becky from where she kneels on the ground in front of them.

An unspoken conversation ensues, Charlotte’s gaze disagreeing because, truly, it’s not that small of a wound. In fact, if they were on the mainland, she’d be bringing Bayley straight to the hospital for stitches. Thankfully, she’d taken multiple, medical courses throughout her time at university, years ago. Adding to that, she elected to take another brush-up class when she was preparing for her first expedition with Becky. Anything to prepare and be helpful.

Today, it looks like her knowledge is bound to come in handy, but it’s not like she’s thankful for it, or happy to put her rookie skills to the test. Even so, she’d do anything to provide Bayley a fraction of comfort in battle with what must be excruciating pain shooting up and down her leg, and she’s determined to try her hardest on the brunette’s behalf.

“You’re lying,” after a beat, Bayley winces while side-eyeing Becky, “but, this time, thanks.”

The treasure hunter exhales through a shaky smile, still regretful and ultimately conflicted, but it’s overrun by Sasha giving the rags to Charlotte with the comment, “They’re a little water-logged.”

The blonde is already in the process of wringing one out once Sasha notifies her of the mishap, Charlotte’s nose scrunching with both hands getting a majority of the water out. It isn’t long before she exhales and wraps the cloth around her fingers, deciding, “They’ll have to do for now,” and holding it while waiting.

Hesitation follows, or maybe she’s just psyching up both herself and Bayley whose eyes peer down to meet penitent blue-green, as if Charlotte is already apologizing for what’s close to ensuing. As if she’s already apologizing for the inevitable, sharp pain and what has to be done in order to rid Bayley of what, ultimately, could impair her further.

At the sincerity, Bayley only nods, then looks away with Becky’s lips sealing in result of secondhand apprehension and nervousness. Charlotte mimics the nod, mainly self-directed, then exhales.

“This is going to sting a lot.”

Again, the brunette nods, but, this time, she pushes herself to sound less than bothered about it by actually speaking.

“Do it,” Bayley tightens her jaw.

Behind Charlotte, Sasha bites her nails with three fingers curving against her mouth in worry, knees wanting to buckle when she witnesses the tightened grip against Becky’s forearm once it’s given to Bayley for support. They can all see the agony on the driver’s face, also accompanied by throaty grunts that all but reveal how much she’s holding in to keep them from sympathizing too much. To keep them from looking at her like she’s the weakest link, or the fatty piece of their bolstered team.

If she pretends she’s a trooper, they’ll think she fits in more. Maybe they won’t hide anything else from her. And, sure, perhaps those internal musings are a shade bitter or childish, but they hold endless truth. Maybe this will provide the reassurance that she’s one of them. That she belongs here, and she’s not as much of a softy as they think she is. Deep down, she knows that Becky’s nickname for her is derived from a sort of comfort, a kindness that she picked up on when Bayley shared that story on their way to the first island, but, currently, she wonders if being a softy is more so a curse than anything. If she had provided them with a brasher attitude, a tougher persona, they wouldn’t have hidden anything from her. They’d believe she could handle it.

That’s what her thoughts say, at least.

Until those thoughts, also, are derailed when Charlotte slides closer to the wound with the rag, and Bayley whines while tilting her head back a bit. Becky clenches her teeth at the distraught sound mixed with the nails scraping along her forearm in a way that creates reddened paths, and Sasha has to walk away, all while the blonde mouths _I’m sorry_ ’s and continues working.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Becky coos against her temple. “How’s it coming, Charlotte?” the following question is a little more rushing, contradicting her previous, tentative statement.

“Almost done, I promise,” the historian understands. “The gravel needs to come out or it’ll get infected,” she explains, voice shaking. “I’m sorry.”

Bayley makes a sour face, groaning out a disgruntled “Ew” that causes Becky to choke on a small laugh.

 _“There’s_ a reaction.”

Her quip extracts a small chuckle from Bayley ━ albeit a weak one ━ as Charlotte refocuses despite the diluted grin on her face when she can tell that Becky is trying to be the brunette’s light. She’s succeeding, too. For all the self-directed hatred that Charlotte _knows_ Becky is currently harboring in regards to what has happened, she’s glad that the Irish woman is pushing it aside to cater to her teammates, first. To Charlotte, that means something. If anything, _that’s_ Becky’s selflessness. _That’s_ where she’s grown.

Feet away, Sasha still appears unbelievably worried, as if nothing is comforting her concerns or easing her misgivings. Not even the simple sound of Bayley’s tiny laugh at Becky’s comment. The mercenary is facing them again, eyes zoned into where Charlotte’s hand works with the rag, a faint red now coloring the cloth’s fibers. Her hand is still at her mouth and her eyebrows are still furrowed with her features in complete disarray, but, overall, her posture is detached. Mindless, somewhat, as she’s lost in thought.

Becky notes it, but doesn’t mention the extreme, dwelling body language. She mainly focuses on Bayley whose grip eases up on her arm, evidently getting used to Charlotte’s care.

Even if she had mentioned the mercenary’s look of disorder, how would Sasha be able to explain herself?

How would Sasha be able to explain that, before the boat was launched into a rock, she’d been close to apologizing to Bayley for being so stupid, for betraying her so quickly when she’s come here to _protect_ them? How would she be able to explain that Bayley means something to her, in such a short amount of time, because she’s unlike anyone she’s ever encountered? Her opposite. Her warm, _coddling_ opposite. And Sasha can tell that Bayley doesn’t care how stiff her personality is. Both in a way that says Bayley wishes Sasha would understand it doesn’t matter to her, and also as if to agree that the mercenary can attempt staying so rough around the edges, but, deep down, she knows that it’s an act. Sasha is just as soft, just as vulnerable and easily subjected.

Which is why, once Sasha looked at her within the confines of their boat for those final, few seconds, once she gave the brunette a look with volumes of words unspoken yet caught in her throat… Bayley saw the wave coming out of the corner of her eye, and she pulled Sasha toward her at the very last moment.

They were thrown together, landing mere feet apart within the center of three, massive rocks. At the time, the two were both unscathed and unbroken, Sasha instantly swimming over to Bayley as they struggled to stay above the waves with water continuously getting into their mouth. They’d try spitting it out time and time again, Sasha facing away from the current with Bayley looking past her, only to see another massive wave shooting in their direction with the rocks at their backs.

She knew it wasn’t going to end well, no matter what, but the brunette would be damned if she let Sasha be the waves’ main victim. So, without warning, Bayley all but tackled the mercenary at the last second, wrapping her in what resembled a koala hug with her right arm curling around the back of Sasha’s head to hold her the closest, other arm around her arm and torso, only for the two of them to get flipped into the rocks like they weighed nothing. And, once the water died down, Sasha remained almost wholly unblemished by the stone, but she couldn’t say the same for the woman who saved her.

Sasha knew that something was wrong. At the time, she couldn’t see any blood, but she did see that Bayley was shoved between two of the stones with her leg clipped the most until the wave’s strength subsided and the brunette was released. On instinct, Sasha wanted to scold her for doing something so stupid, so reckless and without request, but she knew that wasn’t the time or place. In actuality, it was both the time and place to repay Bayley instantly, pulling the brunette onto her back and ignoring the anger she acquired regarding the navigator putting her life on the line to save the person who’s supposed to be their designated “bodyguard.” She still eye-rolled at the term, but swam them approximately fifty yards to shore, a few rounds of whimpers still staining Sasha’s eardrums despite trying her hardest to keep her motions fluid and away from shifting Bayley too much on her back.

Honestly, the only reason Sasha knew which direction to head in is because of a glimpse she caught through the rain and a single, distanced flash of lightning. Otherwise, they would’ve been left to float in the water until…

She swallows hard.

“Okay, okay, it’s done.”

The rags are placed onto the ground in a pile, and Charlotte dips her hands in a nearby puddle so she can halfheartedly clean herself of stray blood. For the time being, Bayley’s pain has dwindled at least minutely, and Sasha can see the faint wave of relief that lightens the brunette’s face as she gingerly flexes her knee.

“Is she going to be okay?”

Becky lifts her chin to look at the mercenary, and so does Bayley. Charlotte glances over her shoulder, then stands before licking her lips.

“Should be,” the answer is simple. “I’m no nurse, but… for now, all we can do is keep an eye on how it heals. Her knee is fine. It’s just the shin area,” Charlotte turns back to see Bayley staring up at her with doe-like eyes.

Sasha simply nods, and Bayley looks at her again, but, this time, the mercenary turns away while crossing her arms and glancing up at the sky.

“We have to find shelter, like… immediately,” she determines. “Something tells me the storm’s not over yet.”

Becky is first to agree, “We’ll find a cave, get some drier wood and make a fire. Continue tomorrow.”

Charlotte faces her, and the treasure hunter continues.

“Nothing’s worth competing with Mother Nature over.”

With collective agreement among them, Sasha wanders over to where Becky still holds onto Bayley’s waist. She resumes her position from before as the redhead moves to the side, the mercenary helping Bayley onto her feet. Similar to seconds ago, Bayley turns her head with desire to look at Sasha, to silently ask if they’re okay, but the other woman won’t. It’s like she outright refuses to lock eyes, and it’s yet another thing Becky notices but doesn’t mention.

If they want to explain what happened when no one else was around, that’s on them. She’s impeded on enough boundaries for a while, and she bows her head.

Charlotte moves to her side, quietly absorbing the events that brought them here. It’s a short break in the action, however, disrupted by the redhead sighing and bending over in order to pick up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. Next, her eyes bore into the historian’s temple, waiting to be turned to.

After three more seconds, she is, and Becky gives her a sincere “Good job.”

It catches Charlotte’s attention. Her genuinity, that is, and the faintly apologetic grin that also looks exhausted. She blinks at the sentiment with a subtle nod being given in return, right before the two of them begin to follow their teammates through the thinning rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, they survived! And YOU survived the cliffhanger, congrats!
> 
> Anyway, I'm here updating earlier than I would even on a normal schedule ━ despite previously saying that I'd be taking a break ━ because a few friends of mine and anons convinced me to, plus as much as I love leaving y'all on cliffhangers, I also wanted to get this chapter and the next chapter out (since the next chapter is a favorite of mine). With that said, my "break" will happen after Ch. 15 is posted. I'm going to be working on Ch. 16 tomorrow, so hopefully that break won't be too lengthy, but I've said this all before so yadda yadda by now.
> 
> Also, holy crap we're nearly at 100K posted here already. I've been writing too much, haven't I? My apologies... kinda.
> 
> I know this chapter was a bit sore, but the progress is still good, right? I hope so. I'll see you soon for Ch. 15!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty lengthy and it's p-much all dialogue, so I'd grab a snack and/or a drink if I were you! Otherwise, there's a break like... 2/3rds of the way through the chapter, but who wants to pause, really? 
> 
> Have fun; it's a heavy one.

SUN., 6:57 P.M.

* * *

Becky inhales the scent of an adolescent fire that clouds the four women while they sit around its origin under the mouth of a cave, three of them cross-legged on the floor while Bayley stretches out her injured leg.

The sun is still out but little by little dimming, a reddish hue tinting the sky as the rain has stopped and the storm has dwindled. Birds and bugs are finally exiting their hiding places, cooing, chirping, and buzzing in the foliage just outside and around the cave’s outer walls, along with croaking frogs and the pitter-patter of small footsteps.

Unlike before, they’re able to soak into its calmness, and relax into their exhaustion while ignoring the elements and thoughts that stain them. Currently, they’re too tired to delve into the memory of how they got here. How, just this morning, they were waking up in moderately cozy beds with bodies that felt unafflicted by the outside world, yet in due time they’ll be heading to sleep on flat slate without blankets or a single pillow. Unless you consider their backpacks to be quality neck-support, that is.

The fire between them is a compact, makeshift pile of mostly dry wood ━ _thankfully_ ━ that they’d found after Becky and Sasha went scavenging through the thinning rain, hours prior. The first twenty minutes of searching had been useless, noting how every piece and patch of tree was absolutely soaked from top to bottom by the rainfall. With those pieces of lumber, the fire would be all too smoky to exist within the shallow cave they’d scoped out earlier to be their base camp for the night, their temporary residence the size of a basic, high school classroom. Roomy enough to sleep, bittersweet enough to be obnoxiously personal considering how tense things were before the storm.

Nonetheless, within another, nearby cave, Becky called Sasha over once she found a tree toppled into its entrance and rolled further inside, the mercenary first cautious in case wildlife had been taking refuge within. But, luckily for them, the smaller, crumbling cave was vacant and the tree was untouched by precipitation, like the powers from above tossed them a cookie for surviving the storm. They’d found fuel for their fire, and would only have to work to start it manually as Becky’s box of matches were drenched by the sea.

It didn’t take much of Becky’s careful hands and precise brushing together of sticks and rocks before there was a spark, then another, and, soon, a flame that was blown onto and nurtured until it grew. The three other women looked impressed while remaining silent, Bayley sitting down and resting her leg while everyone else helped to make their base relatively homey for the night. Their motions weren’t speedy, nor were they detail-intensive as each group member nurses their individual bruises and smaller wounds, especially Becky who’s periodically winced whenever she moves the wrong way with her injured ribs. Nothing she can’t handle, though, and she’s easily ignored the stinging, burning sensation within her side, not to mention the knick on her jaw that’s already scabbing over. Luckily, she’s the second worst-off member of their group, Bayley obviously being the first, and the other two women are merely scraped here and there. Becky counts that as lucky, at least, despite their minimal wounds likely contributing to the silence as those traumas also bring exhaustion. They’ve made their time work, despite that.

Once dinner came around, approximately twelve minutes ago, Becky pulled a single, lightweight pot from her backpack and poured a thermos of noodles and vegetable broth into it, warming its contents over the fire before distributing the soup to her partners within tin mugs. She’d packed only a small amount of the broth with knowledge ━ _prior_ knowledge ━ that they’d be away from the mainland for one night at the most, deciding against packing more than that along with the sealable, plastic baggy of dozens of granola bars. Becky, herself, opted to eat one of the breakfast bars for her meal as it’s already finished, constantly grateful that they hadn’t fallen victim to salt water within her bag.

Her choice in food has received multiple looks within that twelve-minute span, but it isn’t until Becky crumples the wrapper in her palm and stuffs it back into her bag that she’s asked about it.

“Why didn’t you eat soup with us?” Sasha settles her lips on her cup’s rim. “Is it poisoned?” she can’t help but add the teasing comment, smirking lightly before taking a sip.

“No,” it comes through a half-chuckle, half-exhale. “That’s the last of it. I’d rather you three finish it and feel at least a bit comfortable. I’m used to these,” she lifts the bag of thirty or so granola bars before sealing it.

Charlotte looks at her. Yet again is Becky sacrificing her own happiness ━ in a lesser form of the word ━ with insinuation that it’s less valuable than theirs. That it’s expendable. Again, a valiant thing to do, but unnecessary. The historian knows why she’s doing it, too, and it’s all derived from self-blame in accordance to them being marooned on this island.

As far as Charlotte is concerned, that storm was nowhere near Becky’s fault, both literally and figuratively. It wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t a metaphor of their shaky teamwork, or this journey. It was a storm, part of the normal weather cycle from around these parts, and no one could’ve controlled it, nor could they have foreseen it. Okay, so it happened after they had a minor falling out, but it wasn’t the exclamation point of anything. It wasn’t the culmination of their woes, their arguing, their disagreements.

It wasn’t a _result_ of anything.

The sooner Becky understands that, the better.

“You best enjoy it,” the hunter flashes them a tight-lipped smile, suddenly, with a matched sigh. “After that, we only have granola bars to look forward to. Not the worst, but…” a shrug ends the statement before her voice falls quiet. “I should’ve given you the option and asked if you’d like to have the broth now or save it for later, huh?” her eyes drift off. “Ah, well, you can still help yourself to… _these,”_ she gestures to the bag of granola bars.

They can tell she’s feeling overly apologetic for something minor in order to account for the bigger picture, so Bayley bows her head and Sasha drinks more of the warm liquid when she doesn’t know what to say.

For the most part, since the fire has been crackling between them, the air has been awkward, quiet and unspoken with a tense bubble trapping them inside. There’s been so much that they each want to say, perhaps not in discussion of what happened earlier ━ not right now, at least ━ but about how they’re going to go about things from now on. After all, they’re dealing with living off the land, with soggy backpacks full of things that have potentially been ruined by the water, and Becky isn’t even sure where the trail picks up on this massive piece of land. They’re only on the cusp of the island’s first, major cliff, and she can already tell that there’s at least ten days’ worth of ground to cover.

She breathes out, knowing that they’re in for something tedious and energy-consuming, and she chooses to be frank about it.

“We lost the rest of our supplies with the boat, so… whatever you have in your backpack, you’re living off of,” her eyes don’t even lift from the ground in front of her, fingers picking at her palm as if she doesn’t want to look up and face disappointment.

“I lost my backpack in the sea,” Bayley’s voice is heard for the first time in a while, frail yet somewhat indifferent, like she’s already accepted it, and Becky recoils even further.

Sasha, however, hasn’t accepted it and doesn’t stray from responding, frowning while deciding, “Then you can share mine. It’s big enough for the both of us to use.”

The sentiment is given a warm smile by Becky, but she manages to hide it by tilting her head to the side and scratching the back of her neck. Charlotte sits on her left, finishing her dinner before placing the tin cup on the stone floor by her side, whereas Bayley sits on her left, and Sasha next.

Another blanket of silence falls over them, but it seems that, unlike the night prior as they sat on the beach surrounding a similar ━ yet larger ━ fire, Sasha refuses to find solace in that quietude. It’s too thick tonight. Too bothersome, and too out of place. They have to address the elephant in the room, and, since no one else will, the mercenary takes it upon herself with a mild cautiousness.

“I hate to voice the obvious, but… even _after_ we find the treasure, we have no way off this godforsaken island, and no way of radioing anyone on the mainland,” it’s heard without waver, but they can all detect her underlying nervousness.

Admittedly, it’s a shared nervousness, and they collectively swallow hard, but Bayley jumps for some optimsm. In light of everything, like her wonky leg, the betrayal that framed the day’s events, and how reserved she’s been since they were smashed into this second island, Bayley still finds strength to uplift everyone else.

Classic Bayley.

“There must be something we can do,” she disagrees, borderline pleading while looking at each woman individually. “Another flare in case someone flies overhead?” her focus zones in on Becky who regretfully closes her eyes.

“We only had one flare,” the treasure hunter informs with her head bowed, voice low.

In her peripherals, she catches Sasha turning away with her lower lip bitten between her teeth, but Becky rejects the idea of allowing the mercenary to feel a measly speck of remorse.

“You did what you had to do,” it gets the purple-haired woman’s attention. “We’ll find a way. We can make a signal fire, or write in the sand. Might be a lame attempt, but, if we have nothing else…”

“Anything’s good enough,” Charlotte intervenes without her eyes evading the dancing flames, and Becky nods.

“So, that’s our play,” the redhead confirms, then focuses on Bayley again. “The real question is… are you good to continue?”

Becky doesn’t wish to be so bold, so to-the-point, and she doesn’t want to sound anywhere relatively uncaring or belittling of the woman’s injury, but she needs to know. If Bayley feels that it’s imperative they return home ━ for her health or even her sanity ━ then so be it. Becky meant it when she said she’d prefer their comfort over anything, even if that means scrapping this “suicide mission” ━ as per Sasha’s original phrase ━ and returning later on her own accord. It’s crucial that Bayley agrees to continue, and, in that case, they will. Beyond that, the Irish woman also expects the others to speak up if they’d like to return back to the mainland.

After everything, even Becky, herself, wishes her obsession and determination would lessen so she could say, “Fuck it,” and head home ━ wherever that may end up being. But the voices in her head tell her to carry on, to see it through and fix what’s been broken within herself, and she can’t ignore them.

God knows she’s tried.

“Do I really have a choice?” seconds later, Bayley chuckles, and the redhead’s heart sinks ━ something the driver must’ve picked up on. “I’m fine to continue. Just a little banged up.”

“A little?” Sasha’s voice displays how heartbroken she feels, surprising the others. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

Bayley, although mutually surprised by the extreme emotion strewn within the mercenary’s words, frowns at the statement. She even defends her actions against that emotion, causing Becky to look back and forth between them.

“I wasn’t going to sit back and watch you take the brunt of the hit,” Bayley debates, and that’s when the other woman visibly backs down.

Charlotte mirrors Becky, observing the pair that are seemingly in their own, shared headspace now.

“You didn’t have to do _that,_ though,” Sasha sounds shy, reminiscent of when Bayley wrapped her arms around her and hugged the woman tight in opposition of the current ━ in opposition of those jagged rocks.

“I didn’t,” the admission is punctual, and her lips purse. “I guess it was my turn to play bodyguard.”

At the jab, Sasha ducks her head with her mouth opening, lacking a proper reaction or rebuttal. Bayley seems surprised by her own remark, as well, features regretful as her gaze softens when looking in the mercenary’s direction. Becky gives them a sad smile, and Charlotte takes a breath. Everything is truly put into perspective when Bayley allows for them to know she hasn’t forgotten, just yet. Nor would they expect her to. But having someone bring it up… they realize they cannot simply brush it off their shoulders, or let it slip their minds.

If they’re going to make it through this together, they’ll have to address what’s happened. The betrayal that’s taken place, the lies, the “protection.” All of it.

“I’m sorry,” Bayley whispers, heart tender. “I didn’t mean…”

“Yes, you did,” Sasha halfheartedly interrupts, giving her an accepting grin. “But I deserve it. I shouldn’t have gone along with it. I shouldn’t have hid anything.”

Becky seals her lips forcibly. She knows that it’s all her fault. Even if Sasha and Charlotte went along with it ━ even if they accepted her way of doing things because she _pleaded_ with them to ━ it’s still her fault. She constructed the lie, she carried it out, and she’s to blame.

If anything, _she_ should be the one apologizing. So, she does.

“I shouldn’t have, either. I’m sorry,” it’s sincere, and it catches their attention. “It’s my fault Sasha lied,” she stays away from using the woman’s nickname ━ _purposely._ “I… didn’t want her saying anything, for selfish reasons. That was my bad.”

The confession receives a blank stare from Sasha who primarily keeps to herself, but Bayley nods in acceptance.

“From now on, we’re open,” Becky states. “I know that’s rich coming from me, but… at this point, somethin’s gotta give, right?” there’s a weak laugh within the pause. “How ‘bout it?”

“Deal,” the mercenary crosses her arms without missing a beat, and Bayley nods more than a second ago.

Still, they’re missing one more response, and Becky turns her head to the left. Charlotte sits there, eyes burning into the fire as if she could permeate the flames with heat more than they could do to her, and her jaw is tightened at maximum. Becky frowns at the frigid demeanor, her stoic features and outright refusal to add to the conversation, but she’s also not moving on without some sign of acknowledgement or understanding from the blonde. She’s trying to patch things up between them so they can move forward ━ _together_ ━ and she’s attempting to wipe things clean. To do that, everyone needs to be on board. Including the historian.

Unfortunately, it appears as though Charlotte tries her best to tune out the stares and the agreement amongst everyone else, and Becky isn’t even sure if the woman had been listening for half of it. She’s been sitting here, but also… not really. Not fully, at least. Not when the fire in front of them sucks her into its volatile dance, not when her body language portrays that she’s clawing to escape something else. Something within her own mind. And the treasure hunter wonders if that, too, has something to do with what she’s done. How she’s tainted their overall perception of her and how she operates. It wouldn’t be the first time, Becky sighs.

“Deal?” she asks again, this time directly at Charlotte, and the historian shifts her clenched jaw as it clicks in her ear.

Opposing Becky’s muted confusion and presumptions about Charlotte’s lack of spoken word, another teammate knows what’s going on. Quite frankly, on the other side of the fire, a memory washes over Sasha, and her heart grows sore. She can tell what Charlotte is thinking about, and where her mind is floating back to. It’s something that they’ve mutually harped on for years, and it’s what brought them together, in the first place. She can tell just by the way Charlotte stares wistfully into the flames, how she grew quiet right as Becky declared that they’ll be open from now on, how the tall blonde’s face fell gradually until her throat bobbed and her relaxed posture stiffened.

Right away, Sasha detected the memory spring into her eyes, and, as Charlotte lifts her chin to look at her with a glistening focus colored by a glowing orange, it causes her sympathy to amplify tenfold. Charlotte’s sad expression merely deepens with the eye contact, and Sasha gives her a sad, half-smile that speaks volumes.

“You don’t have to,” the words are mouthed to Charlotte, but the other woman fully replies.

“I do,” it’s paired with a subtle nod. “I’m tired, Sasha,” her voice supports the claim.

Becky frowns heavily at the exchange, eyes darting between the two, then to Bayley who likewise has no idea what’s going on. From the very beginning, both Becky and Bayley observed the unrevealed history between the pair of women ━ a bonus being that Charlotte recommended Sasha for whatever reason ━ however that history was never disclosed. But, now, with the two staring at each other until Charlotte ducks her head with an oncoming sigh, it’s apparent that they’re ready to let Becky and Bayley in on whatever-it-is.

“I haven’t…” Charlotte already struggles. “I haven’t been entirely truthful, and…” an inhale is taken, “it’s affected _a lot_ of this trip for me.”

The Irish woman can tell that the confession is directed at her without Charlotte turned to her, specifically, so she tilts her head attentively. The blonde shifts her jaw another time.

“The, um…” constant hesitation is shown, but they’re patient. “The expedition you and I went on together wasn’t one and done,” there’s a mere second where she finally looks at Becky, eyes fragile, but it’s immediately over. “Unfortunately, at least.”

The three, tailing words are quiet, sunken below a whisper to the point of being said to herself in both regret and sorrow, perhaps an additional hint of guilt. Sasha rubs the back of her neck while turning her head, whereas Becky and Bayley wait with creased foreheads and silent stares. The buzzing of the outside insects grows louder around them as the sun continues to lower behind an outstanding boulder of the cliff, the fire’s orange glow slowly consuming the area. It becomes the focus of Charlotte’s eyes as her lower lip is chewed absentmindedly.

Becky understands that the woman is trying to delay retelling the story, and she almost wishes she could interrupt and comfort the historian with a cooed expression of how she doesn’t have to say anything if she doesn’t want to. But, judging from Charlotte’s response to Sasha minutes ago, she _does_ want to. It just doesn’t change the fact that the story is hard to process. Hard to relive, especially.

Her insides shake with anticipation both good and bad, tense yet curious.

“There was another trip, a year or so later, and worse on all fronts. It made that first one look like a walk in the park,” Charlotte sucks in a deep breath and her eyes float to the ceiling of the cave, already brimming with tears as she shakes her head. “And━and I knew that going back for more would be terrible for my health,” her voice is strained. “That first time, I really thought I’d return home as a shell of myself. I didn’t, but… maybe it’s a bad thing that I hadn’t. Because, what came after… what I thought I could handle but ultimately couldn’t… it was the nail in my metaphorical coffin. Almost my literal one, too.”

Becky swallows hard at the thought, throat pulsing, then her lips stay parted. There’s absolutely no way she can even attempt to look unbothered by the historian’s crumbling exterior, and what Becky estimates she’s going through on the inside. It’s already tragic.

“Unlike that time with you, it wasn’t a story that I was after,” again, she briefly glances at her old partner, then back at the fire. “I’m not sure why I wanted more, I just… didn’t feel done with it. After you left…” her head bows, and the redhead shifts her jaw while looking guilty with lowering eyes. “The thirst of adventure got me.”

The laugh that punctuates her sentence is full of tears as her gaze now lacks them, the sensation retreating back into her veins with a sinister grin that’s the least bit genuine tugging one corner of her mouth upward. In fact, it causes Becky’s heart to falter, and her shoulders ease to a slumped position. Charlotte hasn’t even gotten that far into the story, yet the treasure hunter already feels helpless to do anything. And maybe she can’t. No, scratch that: she truly _can’t_ do anything to sympathize or comfort the other woman, and she knows it. Realistically, that’s the hardest thing to stomach. When all you’ve wanted to do is protect someone yet conclusively do the opposite. Sometimes, you actually become the root of their problems, and you realize that you’re the one who caused their downfall.

When she lifts her eyes, she can see Bayley also engrossed in the solemn recollection, but similarly holding features that ache with sympathy. Next to her, Sasha stays silent; it’s clear that she’s heard it before, and Becky’s eyes stay zoned in on the mercenary until Charlotte continues.

“I had been researching an artifact━reportedly a massive, raw sapphire━called the Cintamani Stone for a while, and, even more so, the fabled city of Shambhala hidden somewhere in the Himalayas,” the blonde recounts, and Sasha chews her inner cheek, visibly stirring where she sits.

Next to Charlotte, Becky’s eyes squint with a tiny nod, previously hearing of the place but never delving much into it. The few times she’d heard the legend’s name tossed around, each happened while she and Paige were in the midst of another hunt, and it didn’t seem to fit their bill, so they passed up the option of chasing it. She tunes back out of her own thoughts and into the conversation.

Charlotte sighs, “I’ve never been one to turn away from something presumed to be fictional. To me, myths are just as important as proven facts and unquestioned concepts.”

Beckys smiles gently.

“I waited until I found someone who was digging into the same thing, and I eventually did. Her name was Shayna, and she was…” her sentence pauses, then she restarts. “She did things differently than you do,” her head tilts so she can look at Becky, and the Irish woman has no idea if the implications are positive or otherwise. “She’s less entertained, less enthused, and her traits were off-balanced. I wouldn’t say selfish, and I wouldn’t say ruthless, but… rough around the edges. But, honestly, I didn’t care. I didn’t care who she was. I just knew I needed someone with a direction when it comes to treasure hunting.”

Stupidly, Becky’s internal voices plead with Charlotte and beg to know why she hadn’t called _her,_ or asked for _her_ help, even at the risk of arguing by the end of the call or text or _whatever._ Truly, she knows the answer. If she were to ask aloud, they’d all know the answer without Charlotte merely acknowledging it. She’d be a fool to voice the thought.

“The trip was doomed from the start,” what comes is a sad smile, Charlotte’s throat growing sore with determination not to cry. “From the get-go… we were goners,” Becky listens to the sadness ━ the _wateriness_ ━ in her voice, feeling like she, too, is destined to break down. “It started when our Jeep crashed on the way to this temple in Nepal, said to be built above the entrance to Shambhala. We were able to walk away without a scratch, but, again, maybe if we’d gotten hurt then we would’ve been able to avoid the rest. Maybe Shayna would’ve…” she licks her lips, stalling.

Bayley’s eyes move to Becky at the same time the hunter looks at her, and they’re both forced to turn away. It hits too close to home right now.

“We took refuge in a small, Tibetan village for two days, recuperating and planning our next move. It was nice to lay low, surrounded by kind strangers who helped us when they didn’t have to,” the blonde smiles wistfully. “I wish we would’ve stayed there. Because… the people we met once we finally reached that temple… they weren’t as courteous,” this time, she meets Sasha’s eyes. “All but one.”

It’s as though the eye contact isn’t received as nicely as it was given, Charlotte flashing her a bittersweet smile with those teardrops threatening to drip down her cheeks whereas the mercenary appears like she wants to tuck her tail between her legs and run away. Becky and Bayley study Sasha, as well, which likely doesn’t help her distant attitude, in the long run. Charlotte feels saddened by Sasha’s rejection of the sentiment, but she understands. She tries to, at least.

On the other hand, Charlotte’s throat continues to clench and thump like her heart’s taken refuge inside when she tries her hardest to keep those tears at bay, but all is lost when her lower lip begins to quiver and she can’t stop it. A result of mental and physical wounds she wishes she didn’t have to uncover from beneath her now-rugged complexion. It’s like she’s starting to rip a cheap bandaid off as it’s practically tattooed onto her skin for years since the trip, and it _stings._

“Sash,” she needs the mercenary’s attention, and, once she gets it, a plastic smile pleads with her, “help me out?”

She can tell that Charlotte is nearing her breaking point. Despite the story not being anywhere near its climax yet, it’s obvious that the events are running at infinite speed within the historian’s mind, and Sasha understands that it’s time to take the reins so Charlotte can recuperate in the meantime. So she can cry, or breathe, or hyperventilate, or all three. Not that the mercenary believes she’ll be any better off, by the end of it.

“I, um,” Sasha clears her throat, Becky still staring at Charlotte with a giant frown before finally blinking away. “I was working for a man named Lazarević. He was… the worst of the worst. Your typical, greedy overlord with a superiority complex that he only wanted to stroke and feed. Bombings, raids, mass murder, mutilation, you name it. He idolized the likes of Genghis Khan, Stalin, Hitler. Even had his own catchphrase that we had to recite," her eyebrows raise. _"'Compassion is the enemy. Mercy defeats us.'"_

She hesitates, tongue dragging across her teeth.

"But he was the first to hire me as a skilled mercenary, fresh off a giant fuck-up when I lost my father’s entire militia. He was the first to give me a shot, and I’d be damned if I fucked that up, too.”

Charlotte runs a hand through her hair, and Becky side-eyes her.

“So, I went along with it,” the mercenary shrugs. “If he wanted to go psychotic for a ball of radioactive tree sap, so be it,” she switches her position and leans back, hugging her knee with her other leg outstretched, “because, turns out, that’s what the freakin’ stone was. It _wasn’t_ stone, at all. It wasn't even a sapphire. It was amber, and it was… old as shit.”

It comes with a laugh that Charlotte rolls her eyes at but gives a faint smile to. Her bluntless is uncanny, but the historian internally muses that she supposes it’s a less-technical phrase for “prehistoric.”

“We didn’t know that, though. Not before, at least,” Sasha gets back on track. “We were at the temple when we first saw Charlotte and Shayna sneaking around, and to say Lazarević was unhappy is an understatement. He was an escaped war criminal, so you can only imagine how he reacted to things, and how he…” her lips suddenly seal when she sees Charlotte gulp, and her next words are straight to the point. “I had orders.”

It instantly stiffens Becky and causes Bayley to feel uneasy. The three words ring throughout the Irish woman’s mind, rattling around like they’ve taken all thoughts and ideas from her brain and throat, crushing them between bare, frigid hands. Suddenly, everything she’s been stuck on has evaporated. Slipped through one ear and onto the floor of the cave. Her blood turns frozen and she genuinely wishes she didn’t have to process the implication. But it sticks to her brain like cement, instantaneously hardened and holding onto her thoughts with a vice grip. It’s not difficult to comprehend what the woman refers to.

Sasha had orders to kill Charlotte and Shayna. She had orders to end the blonde sitting nearby. The blonde that’s meant more to Becky than she’s ever been able to own up to. If it happened like it was supposed to, Becky would never have had the opportunity to own up to that meaningfulness, either. Her eyes begin to sting.

“I tried delaying it,” at their undwindling silence, Sasha promises them with a cracked, defensive tone, but even then her statement is predominantly directed at Charlotte as if the historian hasn’t forgiven her yet. “I took one look at Charlotte and I knew she didn’t deserve to be shot down in cold blood like I was told,” even she, herself, begins to sound choked up. “Neither did Shayna. Unfortunately, even though I intentionally misfired on multiple occasions━during multiple shoot-outs━she was caught in the fray of one of them. Then, she was…”

Her sentence never finishes, letting the imagination roam for Becky and Bayley. A tear trickles down Charlotte’s cheek, using her pointer finger to wipe it away while remembering when she lost Shayna. Remembering how the footsteps and shouting behind her subsided as she fell to the ground when an explosion was heard, a canister of dynamite shooting off behind them and creating such a large blast that she was knocked onto her stomach. She twisted her body to look behind her, fiery warmth instantly creating a thin coat of sweat against her face, like when you peer over the steam exiting a boiling pot of water on the stove.

She only caught the ultimate glimpse of Shayna once the blast’s fog dispersed, and, by then, she wishes she hadn’t. She wishes she could erase the image from her mind. The view of Shayna on her knees, a pistol pointed at her temple by Lazarević who smiled with his face’s giant scar tightening menacingly, followed by the woman’s execution in the most graphic ending she’s ever witnessed.

Charlotte couldn’t move, she couldn’t even scream or mourn. She couldn’t find her voice, and, by all means, she wouldn’t be able to hear herself speak even if she managed. Hell, she’s surprised she didn’t get sick, right then and there, but she wouldn’t be so fortunate to escape that reaction within the following hours. Her fingers trembled against the ground and she then placed her forehead against the dirt, teeth bearing with tears dropping into a small puddle below her. Lying there, she was nearly ready to throw in the towel, curl up into a ball, and fall into the world’s deepest, catatonic state until she was taken somewhere whiter, somewhere cleaner. Until she was entering through Heaven’s gates, ready to make a home there.

She was finished. Looking back, maybe even part of her soul was executed at the same time Shayna was, knelt right next to the woman that she’d roped into the adventure. Maybe that bullet also pierced her as it blew through her partner’s skull, creating an abstract against a smiling Lazarević and the ground below. Maybe she could’ve taken Shayna’s place, and spared the woman’s life by nobly accepting the fate she’d sealed when she pursued the Cintamani Stone. Maybe she deserved to take her place, too.

Her eyes glaze over with them unblinking for a moment of being zoned into the flames, simultaneously drying out in the process. Across from her, over the fire, Sasha regrets having to retell any of this with a thumping contained within a heavy chest, simply watching Charlotte carry on with her internal struggles leftover from years passed.

“Charlotte, I am still _so_ sorry,” the mercenary’s eyes water, and Becky has never seen so much misery come from the woman who’s prided herself on being so tough, so immovable. “I tried━”

“I know you did, Sash, it’s okay.”

The interruption causes Sasha to shake her head, having to take a breath and force the emotions behind the calloused part of her resolve as everything falls silent around them. Only a cracking sound breaks the tension, but it’s not enough. If anything, it may even drum up more suspense. Becky remains uninterrupting, and Bayley wears a frown as she looks at Sasha, wanting to scoot over and ignore the pain shooting up her leg before wrapping her into a hug far more tender than hours ago. But she doesn't want to overstep, either, and is left dealing with a mutually sore heart as both Sasha and Charlotte weep for something still unsaid.

Charlotte sniffles hard, wiping her eye with the back of her wrist and then the side of her thumb. She clears her throat, next, untightening her shoulders before giving herself a firm nod in decision to take turns with Sasha once she sees her looking toward the ceiling with breaths being collected.

“After,” Charlotte’s voice rasps with the lone word, clearing her throat another time, “I was captured by Lazarević’s men. I figured they’d kill me. Part of me even wished they would,” she says quietly, and the raw honesty alerts Becky.

“Wait a second━” she tries with a deep, settled frown and a scratchy tone, but Charlotte shakes her head desperately.

“No, just… let me get this out.”

The hunter retreats when she senses the unbelievable despair radiating off of Charlotte. Her heart swells with the worst possible emotions, feeling beyond helpless now. Here, she feels her own eyes beginning to fog up, beginning to give into the idea of how she’d exist without the historian sitting by her side, but she stares into the fire without blinking. Without hardly breathing, either. She can’t afford to crumble right now. This is Charlotte’s story, after all, and Becky owes it to her to listen without judgment ━ even if that judgment is via sheer defense and preservation.

Bayley, nearby, stares at Becky with sympathy now that Sasha has calmed down and her attention is less glued to the mercenary. It seems that they’re all lost in the events, lost in the overwhelming grief whether it’s secondhand or otherwise, and it’s heavier than she anticipated.

“It took a week before it ended,” the blonde restarts. “A week of torturing, being spat on and… _harassed,”_ she bows her head and tightens her arms across her stomach as Becky grows irritated, clenching her jaw and glancing in Sasha’s direction without the mercenary moving to stare back. “And it all only ended thanks to Sasha. She saved me.”

“Not in time,” Sasha disagrees with dangerous, monotonous anger. “Not before they…” her eyes flash red, staring into the embers and unblinking. “God, if I had only snapped when I knew I should’ve…”

“None of what happened was your fault,” Charlotte reminds. “I’ve told you that time and time again.”

“And I will _never_ listen,” Sasha finally lifts her chin. “Charlotte, I knew what they were doing. I knew how they were treating you, how they were… _talking_ about you. Like you were nothing but a piece of meat ready for them to…” she cuts herself off, shaking. “Yet I did nothing about it. For _what_ reason? To save my _own_ ass? To become someone━” they watch her take multiple, deep breaths. “You wouldn’t be scarred for life. You wouldn’t have had to go to therapy and take those self-defense classes if I had only… _God,_ fucking _shit.”_

They cringe at her boiling furiousness as Sasha has to get up and walk away from the fire, fingers locked behind her head as she cools off. Meanwhile, as the others study her aggressiveness, Bayley’s head lowers once she turns back to Charlotte whose eyes close softly before opening again.

“I don’t know what you want me to say to you, Boss.”

The old nickname gets the mercenary’s attention, but she doesn’t return to the fire.

“I’ve told you before that forgiveness toward you didn’t come easily,” Charlotte mentions. “I’m sorry if you’d rather me not forgive you at all, but I can’t do that. I don’t blame you for what happened. You are not at fault for what Lazarević or those men did to me. _You_ shouldn’t blame yourself, either.”

Charlotte’s softness and sincerity apparently grind down Sasha’s irritation and cage-like behavior until she’s turned into a frail creature, eyes vulnerable and shiny as no one else makes a sound in fear that they’ll snap her out of that mutual gentility. Sasha’s throat aches as her mouth opens and closes, looking at a loss for words until, once she speaks, the whisper is completely broken and matched by an equally stumped, shy focus.

“It was on my watch.”

The historian breathes out through her nostrils, not deterred from destroying Sasha’s monumental and everlasting, self-loathing nature. She’s been holding onto those toxic self-hatreds for far too long, and Charlotte won’t accept it anymore.

“You were given a job to kill me,” she speaks solidly but also with care. “You didn’t. _That_ was on your watch, and it’s something you should be proud of.”

It ends with a following, unspoken conversation between their eyes. Charlotte stares over the fire at Sasha whose jaw shifts to the side, right before her arms cross in a light self-defense tactic, but she still refuses to reclaim her former seat on the cave floor. It’s as if Sasha has isolated herself from the group, for the moment, and Charlotte allows her to have another minute. Becky even helps Sasha get away from that, quietly asking, “What happened?” so she can obtain the rest of the story.

“A civil war erupted in the camp,” Sasha surprises them by answering through a sigh. “Lazarević was promising bigger cuts to certain members, and also killing those who disobeyed him. Sometimes, he killed people just for the hell of it. God help whoever stepped a toe out of line, but that only _stirred_ the pot. What happened after…” her eyebrows raise, and she reroutes. “Lazarević went insane, and I let him. I never signed up to drink any putrid, glowing blue sap from a tree. Sap with… _something_ in it. Others drank it, though, and they went mad with him, taking out their aggression on our fellow soldiers like they were on expired ecstacy. Gunfire within an ancient city? Not the best combination.”

“Shambhala began to crumble,” Charlotte mutters while playing with her fingers, and Sasha hums.

“Once the central room with the sap began to fall, Lazarević’s legs were crushed by a giant pillar, and I watched him suffer,” the mercenary says without a trace of regret. “I knew Charlotte was back at the camp, guarded by some of our worst men. I knew my window of opportunity to kill two birds with one stone was waiting for me to jump through. So, I left Lazarević to die as some of my fellow soldiers screamed for help. I didn’t give a shit who saw. I was done.”

Charlotte seals her lips, and Bayley looks up at Sasha who now lingers closer to the fire.

“I ran back to camp as fast I could, shot down the guards, and Charlotte and I bolted through the dying Shambhala, then through the temple, and we stole one of Lazarević’s trucks. Obviously he wouldn’t be needing it.”

“Sasha saved my life,” the historian declares rather suddenly. “Even after that. Even when I couldn’t trust her for a while. I ignored her for days, and I tried ditching her once we arrived back in that Tibetan village. I think the people there knew I was fragile when I came back,” she recalls. “I didn’t hear Shayna’s name mentioned, and they tried getting me to speak to Sasha. The little amount of their language that I spoke… I could tell they were pleading with me to.”

She thinks, “The only reason I finally _did_ forgive her is because I knew sulking in it was only damaging me more, and, deep down, I knew it wasn’t her fault, no matter what she thought.”

Charlotte locks eyes with Sasha as she says it, then continues.

“I knew she blamed herself, and that was enough of punishment if I truly wanted her to be punished for what happened to me.”

Becky turns her attention back to the mercenary, Sasha taking a moment of pause before again whispering, “I’m sorry,” to which Charlotte nods, then wraps up their collective memory.

“We lost contact as time passed, once the dust settled,” it’s broken by a breath, cheeks puffed out. “Sometimes we’d speak, but…” she trails off. “No matter what, Sasha had my back whenever I _did_ manage to pick up the phone. As months came and went, my lack of trust in Sasha turned into the most trust I’ve had since…”

Her words get caught, and, this time, Becky understands that the betrayal is in reference to her. It’s supported by the way Sasha’s eyes settle on hers, and the redhead silently apologizes to the mercenary for hurting Charlotte. Now, she understands how close the two are and for an assortment of reasons, and Sasha can see the remorse strewn throughout the hunter’s features.

On the inside, Sasha knows that Becky’s intentions were never to do damage to Charlotte, but, despite their venture happening before the one in Shambhala, the purple-haired woman still feels the need to be on high alert. Even if it’s in the past between Becky and Charlotte, the historian is clearly still tender from what occured back then, and that’s plenty amount of reason for her to keep her guard up when it comes to the two of them.

Still, Sasha nods at Becky’s non-vocalized apology. Becky doesn’t know if it’s solely to acknowledge it, or if she accepts it, but the motion is better than nothing.

“And that’s that,” Charlotte mumbles once nothing else comes to mind.

At first, the fire between them becomes the only thing to break the acute awkwardness that stirs and strengthens. No one wants to be the person to break it. Not after such an explosive bombshell, not after such a moment of weakness to punctuate how crappy of a day it’s become.

But, then again, Becky doesn’t wish to take refuge in the quietude, much like Sasha didn’t before the conversation started. For the first time on this trip, Charlotte is being open with them, being exposed and vulnerable, and Becky can now see things more clearly and more from her perspective. Now, she understands why the blonde was so hesitant to come on this trip, why she’s so adamant that this is it for her dabbling in the treasure-hunting world. Now, it all makes sense, especially how heightened the historian’s internal warning has been since they arrived, and even before that. All the information is beginning to line up.

“So, you two… had a little adventure of your own?” she’s not sure why it comes out as more of a question than a statement, but she expands on it, anyway. “That’s what you meant by you can’t do this again,” her voice is caught in her throat, forced out. “Not because _I_ was a loose canon, not because _I_ fucked up,” it’s quiet but also cracked ━ not to say it doesn’t also sound relieved, something that rubs Charlotte the wrong way.

“Does it matter?”

The blonde remains stone-faced but not necessarily angry at the question. She appears floored, mildly shocked about how Becky would ask that after she’d poured her heart out, and the redhead’s posture deflates when the insensitivity is not what she intended whatsoever.

Foot in _fucking_ mouth.

She instantly feels further shame for how she spoke and what she said, her intention primarily in wonderance and not self-assurance. Nevertheless, she pushes out an embarrassed apology.

“I’m sorry. No, no, it doesn’t.”

A sad grin tugs at one corner of Bayley’s mouth, and Sasha sighs before deciding to save Becky by changing the subject.

“So, when you asked me how we knew each other or why she trusted me, that’s why I couldn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t want me to know she cheated on me with another treasure hunter?”

She tries making light of the situation, and, in a way she does. Charlotte partly rolls her eyes at the word-choice of “cheated” as if they were a permanent team, but, otherwise, it does get a tiny, amused snicker from the historian.

“No,” Sasha’s eyebrows furrow as if it’s the most obvious thing, “I didn’t want you to know that I… _helped_ someone.”

“Why the hell not?”

“You’re not paying me to have empathy.”

A curt, breathy chuckle comes from Becky. She’s astonished that Sasha would be so crass about it, as though she sincerely seeks out partners that are cold, heartless criminals willing to do anything and everything demoralizing. She shakes her head heavily and squints her eyes at Sasha.

“No, lass, I’m paying you because I trust Charlotte’s judgment,” the Irish woman corrects, an incredulous grin on her face until it morphs into a serious frown. “It was never about your skill. It would’ve never been about your humanity, either. I hired you because I trust her enough to know she meant business with you, and I’m damn proud of the team I assembled. I’m damn proud of that empathy, and your personality. All of yours.”

They all just look at her, soaking in the short rant as her spurt of adrenaline dies and she notices that she’s being assessed like an unknown species of bug.

“What? Too much?”

“No,” Bayley’s voice has a lightness to it. “That was…”

“Unexpected.”

“Nice.”

“A little off.”

The three answer at once, Charlotte mainly stunned, Bayley smiling, and Sasha squinting one eye.

“Yeah,” Becky bows her head and bashfully plays with her hands. “It’s been a long time since I… um…”

Cared. Adored. Tasted friendship. Felt _anything._

Take your pick.

Her sentence ends prematurely, and she shakes on the inside. It’s as if something grabbed ahold of her and reminded her of Paige. Reminded her of the old times, and how they’d sit around fires while being honest with each other. It was their version of a parked-car vent session, usually accompanied by a few, terribly warm beers from their lone cooler’s chill wearing off earlier in the day. They’d talk about anything they could think of, ranging from childhood to their future endeavors, not to mention what they like, dislike, hate, couldn’t get enough of. Food, colors, candy, clothing, weather. _Anything._ But it’d be the only time they pretended to be just two, normal people who weren’t on the brink of finding another coveted treasure. It’d be the only moment of casual serenity, and it’s what Becky always cherished more than anything.

Now, she’s noticing more than ever that she’s been missing it, and it makes her wish she could stop being so rough around the edges with the women in front of her. Maybe, if she lightened up and pretended that she’s not too hardened to deal with things properly, they’d do the same. Not to say they’re all emotionally stagnant or mentally held back, but, if she were to come out of her shell, they’d look at this less like business and more like… a group trip.

Which is corny, come to think of it, but it’s something she’d cherish just as much as the memories with Paige. Sure, she misses her old partner more than words can convey, but there’s always room for more memories, newer memories, softer memories, and beautiful memories.

With her eyes now avoiding everyone else, no one questions the way her body language droops and becomes more placid, and she’s thankful for it. Next to her, however, Charlotte detects Becky’s admiration peeking through her cracked persona.

Maybe the redhead isn’t as bad as she’s been trying to tell herself. Maybe she, herself, has been the bad one of the bunch, dedicatedly trying to make Becky out to be the Devil, all this time, when the Irish woman has been struggling with her own demons. Maybe Charlotte really _has_ been kicking her while she’s down, all because of her own regrets and tainted thoughts of older ventures and the past that should stay buried. She refuses to say she doesn’t deserve to be bitter about what’s happened, but only to a certain point is it valid.

She meant it when admitting that Becky deserves to be loved sometimes. Charlotte, herself, also deserves to be loved, and she can do that by tucking the hatchet beneath the island’s dirt. By trying to, at least. It’ll take time, but, by now, they both need it. Again, they both deserve it.

“There is _one_ thing I’ve been curious about,” Bayley speaks out of nowhere, sounding cautious while looking at Sasha.

Her suddenness and apparent apprehension get the mercenary’s eyes to narrow, tilting her head to the side as Becky and Charlotte also look up with a curiousness.

“Yes?” Sasha nudges her along, and Bayley takes a breath.

“How do you manage being a mercenary with such… _bright_ hair?”

The question gets an immediate chuckle from Becky at Bayley’s seriousness despite her tiny smile, and even Charlotte giggles at Sasha’s mouth opening before a curt laugh tumbles out. Its randomness, alone, is enough to make the inquisition comical after such an intense story and conversation moments ago, but they’re grateful for the thick bubble surrounding them being smashed through. Destroyed completely, and rather heroically.

“I like it,” Bayley defends herself once she doesn’t get a quick answer, “but I’ve been wondering since it’s not the most camouflaged when it comes to Earth tones.”

For a few seconds, Sasha thinks with her lips sealing and face otherwise contorting, then she honestly replies, “If they have enough time to know what my hair color is, I’m not doing my job well enough.”

Becky raises her eyebrows.

Sasha presses her tongue to her inner cheek before adding, “And if they’re too busy focusing on my hair color, then they’re not doing _their_ job well enough.”

The curtness earns a tight-lipped smile from Bayley, matched by the acceptance of “Got it” that holds Sasha’s amusement for a while longer, her eyes drifting downward slightly before she forces herself to look away.

The treasure hunter examines their interaction and continues to jot it down in her mental notebook. They’ve been growing closer throughout the trip, even the night prior, and it interests her considering how opposite the two seem on the outside. How opposite they seem even on the _inside._ But it also seems that Bayley has pulled something safer from Sasha who tries to be as merciless as she should be in the line of being a mercenary, whereas their attitudes have also blended together. That has to mean something, right?

Becky stays quiet, feeling how chapped her lips are while rubbing them together, and she remembers the tub of lip balm she’d packed along with some hand cream for cracked skin. She bends to her right side and zips open a side compartment of her backpack, hearing the fire crackle. Her hands make quick work of finding what she’d set out for, musing how those climbing gloves can only do so many wonders.

“Anyone need some?” after she’s polished her lips and rubbed them together, she shows everyone the item, and Charlotte reaches for it.

Becky delicately places it into her palm and Charlotte smiles lightly, giving the redhead a fluttering feeling in her chest that she’s missed. She feels the need to greet the reminiscent sensation, like an old friend that she hadn’t encountered in a while, but instead she opts to rub her hands together until passing the cream to Charlotte as the items make their rounds.

“Again, I’m sorry for your lack of beddin’ for the night,” Becky huffs. “Our tents and sleeping bags were in the boat. Probably at the bottom of the ocean, by now,” it’s paired with a chuckle. “I’m lucky I kept the broth in my backpack, but now even that’s gone. We’re gonna be real hikers, huh?”

“I’ve got some live-off-the-land camping under my belt, don’t worry,” Bayley grunts when she moves her leg, and it earns a laugh from Becky before it’s turned into a jokingly pained whine.

“‘Some’ being one instance, lass,” she smiles. “Don’t remind me.”

Their quiet laughing and overall enjoyment stays within the air, cheeks warm and the fire between them even warmer under the cave’s cool mouth. The outside is now fully dark, the sky a nice indigo as the appearing stars are prominent from both the lack of civilization’s lights and the after-air of rainfall, Becky already looking at them as she only catches a glimpse from her angle.

Even so, she smiles at the fact that there’s also a calm _after_ the storm. There’s the idea of renewal, and the refreshening of one’s mind. Maybe the storm is what they needed.

Or maybe it was communication.

 

* * *

SUN., 10:03 P.M.

* * *

The stars are bright against a near-black backdrop now, the air chilly, the rain’s after-scent amongst the foliage cluttering the area. Becky hears the bugs’ loud chirping and buzzing, the rustling of mammals within the shrubbery, and a few, spare crackles from logs toppling over within the decaying fire behind her.

She now sits outside the cave, on the ground where very little dampness still remains, and her arms are outstretched behind her as her body is somewhat leaned back. Overall, she looks at peace, simply observant and taking in the new atmosphere while her teammates rest within the cave. They’d split up approximately an hour ago, once the fire began to die and their energy went with it. Of course, Becky’s thoughts kept her mind at topspeed, resulting in this lonely session of breathing and sulking in what the land has to offer.

Still, for thirty or so minutes before Bayley and Sasha actually got up, no one wanted to to throw in the towel and head to bed. Quite frankly, they’d all been enjoying each other’s company way too much. Or just enough.

Their hearts felt lighter and their heads felt clearer, like they finally held hope of starting on their adventure tomorrow with fresh outlooks and shared understanding. And that bled into their departing conversation, as well, when Sasha tossed the lip balm and hand cream back to Becky, and the redhead moved to zip it back into her bag.

She had reached inside the pocket to shove it into the corner, only to brush her hand against another tube within the compartment, and she frowned, forehead creased, while pulling it from the space. A single hum emanated from her throat until it was in her palm, and, suddenly, she was feeling happier than she probably should’ve considering she was staring at a tube of antibiotic ointment.

A self-directed, open-mouthed _“Aha”_ was heard, the medicine held up between two fingers.

_“Looks like we didn’t lose all medical supplies,” she bounces her eyebrows, giving her teammates an impish grin before she lobs it to Sasha. “Help Bayley out, will ya?”_

_Becky fights the urge to wink, though she can’t help the smirk that appears when Sasha’s mouth opens until she forcibly closes it and challenges the redhead with a glare. Bayley doesn’t catch it, but instead makes a gross expression at the tube._

_“That’s going to_ kill,” _Bayley goes wide-eyed._

_“It’s gotta be done,” Sasha all but sings at the brunette. “Let’s go, Softy,” she pats her good leg, then offers the navigator her hand._

_Bayley groans and accepts it, muttering, “Whatever you say, Pinky,” as the mercenary raises her eyebrows and Becky snickers until she’s shot a fiercer glare._

_“I’m going to get ready for bed,” Charlotte begins to get up, as well. “Take off my boots and fix my backpack, I mean.”_

Charlotte’s borderline-sarcastic remark received a weak laugh and a nod from Becky who stayed put, keeping to herself while the fire lowered and lowered until it was gone before her very eyes. She heard the others exchanging occasional laughs within the cave, as well as some not-so-pleasant sounds from Bayley when the antibiotic was being applied to tender skin by Sasha who apologized immensely with a voice that portrayed both care and sympathy ━ also regret, like she blamed herself for it.

Meanwhile, Becky listened. She noted how they’ve changed together, and how what she thought wasn’t possible ━ the comfort, the kindness ━ between them has shifted due to a storm that could’ve ultimately broken them. It could’ve _ended_ them. Both collectively and individually, in every sense of the word. Instead, it’s as though it was a blessing in disguise, and, as she lifts her chin a bit higher to study the constellations above, a smile graces her features.

Paige would be proud.

Behind her, unbeknownst to the treasure hunter, Charlotte watches. She stands at the entrance of the cave, nearly fifteen feet away, leaning against the wall of it while watching Becky admire the sky and everything it has to offer. A similar smile curves her mouth as a faint shade of blush moves across her cheekbones, though she seals her lips and bows her head.

Becky’s quiet enthusiasm about the night sky reminds her of their first adventure. The Irish woman would always be softest at night, and at her prime, susceptible point when they were in the dark, only with moonlight cascading down onto wherever they sat. They had plenty of conversations beneath that nighttime sky ━ _this_ nighttime sky ━ and it’s where most of their relationship was built. Most of their trust, and understanding, and care. Their _attraction,_ above anything.

According to how Becky stares at the sky now, childish captivation abound, her love and peace in relation to the constellations above must still ring true.

One memory, in particular, comes to mind as Charlotte has to suppress another smile and more blush. She recalls catching Becky staring up at the sky a few feet from their tent, the two camped out for the night in the center of an open field. It was on a hill, for the most part, a flattened top with an eventual slope that lead down to a few trees before those trees turned more dense. They could see everything from where they were set up, and that’s the way Becky loved it. Charlotte did, too, if you were to ask her now. It’s something she remembers quite vividly, like the sounds, the scents, the flowers, the colors, everything. _Especially_ the next morning. She woke up earlier than the redhead, crawled between the lips of the tent, only to have her sleepy eyes be opened fully to witness pre-sunrise and the sunrise, itself. Pinks, faint oranges, yellows. All pastel-colored, and all warm.

Unbeknownst to Charlotte at that time, Becky watched her. Just like the opposite is happening now.

They have a way of doing that.

But that night genuinely marked something different for them. Something bigger, and deeper.

Charlotte had crept out from the tent, having set up their camp for the night with their sleeping bags laid out close but not _too_ close. The electric lantern kept the tent lit a faint yellow from the outside, and, previously, Charlotte’s shadow could be seen moving within.

Against Becky’s own will, she smiled at the silly sight before her attention was captivated by the stars.

Once the blonde had one foot onto the bare ground, she was surprised to see Becky sitting cross-legged, roughly the same distance from the tent as she is now from the cave, body language enthralled in the sight before her. It surprised Charlotte initially. Up until then, she’d taken the treasure hunter as someone who mainly observes the more expensive and flashy things in life, perhaps not for money but for the simple idea of an item being extraordinarily rare. To Charlotte, stars are beautiful, sure, but they’re always there. You can never not find them, even on a cloudy night. Even if you’re stuck behind a desk all hours of the day, you know they’re still there. You know they exist without apology, without waverance. Their presence is a small notion, in the historian’s mind.

The stars are something small within a world of so many, complex things.

But, in time, she’d learn that the stars may be small but they mean a great deal to Becky, and she’d learned that once she sat down with her.

_“Rethinking the day’s events?”_

_The redhead peers over her shoulders once her focus is disrupted by the voice, catching Charlotte standing directly behind her._

_“No, just… unwinding.”_

_The historian can tell she’s lying, but doesn’t mention it. Instead, she makes the choice to walk closer before sitting only an inch away, their knees nearly brushing, and Becky side-eyes her without teasing the woman for not honoring personal space. She wants to, but she doesn’t. Not when this feels… nerve-wracking._

_In the best way._

_Honestly, she welcomes the comfort and warmth, especially considering how close they’ve gotten within a few days’ time. Considering how they’ve…_ clicked, _so to speak. It seems as though Charlotte feels the same, and that’s a comfort of its own. Becky swallows hard._

_“Has this been everything you’d hoped for?” she asks quietly, turning to Charlotte just barely. “For your article,” her voice sinks lower._

_“It’s been an experience,” it’s honest, equally as quiet as she thinks. “Both for the article and not.”_

Charlotte recalls the way Becky’s eyes floated down to her lips before attempting to quash the forming tension by turning back to the sky, the blonde smirking slightly but also wishing that someone would have the gall to make something heard or _happen._ Nothing ever did, in the end, but the night delivered some much-needed closeness and tenderness, Becky sharing some mythological knowledge about the stars with Charlotte while the historian brought up some astronomical facts of her own. Becky smiled each time, interested but also challenged by the idea of someone holding the ability to match her savviness built on fascination about things almost other-wordly.

By the end of the night, they’d be even closer both figuratively and literally, Charlotte matching Becky’s current-day position as they both outstretched their arms with their fingers brushing behind them. It was relaxing, and Charlotte wonders if they’ll ever get back to that point.

She misses it.

So, in an effort to reconnect at least on some level, Charlotte pushes herself to step forward and approach Becky with a lighter heart than what she’s felt in years.

Without a word, she carefully sits down while feeling brown eyes on her, Becky overall surprised without mentioning it. It’s as if she’s afraid that she’ll spook Charlotte and scare her away, like the blonde hasn’t noticed that she’s been sitting here, and she made a mistake of getting comfortable this close.

Charlotte keeps a foot of distance between them, not too much but not too little, and muses that it symbolizes how much things have changed. Not to mention the fact that she’s even _calculating_ the distance between them, like Becky will question it. She wishes to eye-roll at herself, but stays quiet as her partner looks straight off toward the sky.

When she realizes that the treasure hunter doesn’t wish to break the silence between them for whatever reason, Charlotte turns to her, studies her profile with carefulness, then speaks ━ albeit it’s once she turns back to the stars.

“That was a nice thing you said earlier,” she states rather awkwardly, but it’s also so light that Becky is confused until Charlotte expands on it. “About all of us.”

“Oh, uh,” Becky clears her throat and faces away, “I was just being honest. For once,” she gives herself a shaky laugh, tilting her chin down to stare at the rocky ground.

The nod Charlotte gives is more so self-directed, getting ready to say something else when Becky speaks first, glacing in the blonde’s direction with a timid “Um, listen, Charlotte.”

For the first time, Charlotte looks at her for longer than a second, eyes narrowed.

“Before…” she stops, already starting a new sentence. “I wouldn’t have bothered you into coming had I known about what you went through,” her eyes appear regretful, irritated with herself. “I had no idea that…” the statement trails off, and Charlotte seals her lips.

“I know you didn’t,” the historian shows her an understanding smile. “It’s not your fault.”

“And what I said after I found out. How I made it seem less important since it wasn’t because of me…”

“It’s okay,” Charlotte drags her tongue against her lower lip while thinking. “I guess I hid it from you for personal reasons,” she confesses. “I didn’t want to face those reasons again. I thought I’d be okay to ignore them throughout the trip, but clearly I was wrong. I decided I wanted you to know before we continued.”

The admission causes Becky’s throat to feel like it’s closing up, a new wave of guilt flowing through her veins because there’s just so, _so_ much she’s wanted to tell Charlotte, but hasn’t had the stomach to. And she still doesn’t.

“We all have our reasons to keep things hidden.”

In the end, she settles on the cryptic answer, but Becky actually stuns herself by it and how it’s spoken. Charlotte only uses the tone to her advantage, previously picking up on some dismay and stutter within the redhead’s demeanor, though she didn’t want to mention it in front of everyone else.

“You’re gonna be okay, right?”

“What?” Becky turns to her when she’s caught off-guard by the question. “Oh, yeah,” she resumes her position, staring straight ahead.

“You sure?”

There Charlotte goes, reading her without being told anything. Becky smiles gently, but it diminishes within mere seconds.

“Just being out here… away from pretty much everybody and everything. Takes a toll on you,” she searches the stars. “Your mind starts to wander.”

“Where’s yours wandering to?”

At the inquisition, Becky faces Charlotte with vulnerable eyes and parted lips, pausing and taking a good look at her although still primarily expressionless, then she turns away again. The historian’s heart falters.

“Nowhere important.”

Charlotte wants to protest. She could feel Becky starting to crack before retreating into her shell, as per usual. Regardless, she chooses to let her know that it’s okay to struggle sometimes; Becky doesn’t always have to be the invincible hero, and it’s time she had someone to reassure her of that. She’s allowed to feel, too.

“Even the least important places and memories are still worth revisiting,” it’s said through a whisper, and Becky watches her smile knowingly. “Especially if they dictate your decisions.”

The Irish woman keeps her mouth open partly as Charlotte grins softly even though it’s a shade somber, then the historian pushes herself onto her feet. Before leaving, Charlotte pauses and remains staring down at Becky who appears more childlike and exposed to other perspectives. Even if she doesn’t want to be. Even if she wants to continue working through tunnel-vision while ignoring her own thoughts and emotions.

Charlotte’s smile returns, turning into a tiny smirk that Becky remembers all too well.

“Goodnight, Hot Head.”

She should’ve known. Becky quietly chuckles but accepts it as a sort of peace offering, although still dumbfounded by Charlotte’s advice as the blonde begins to walk away.

“Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

The sound of footsteps tapers off in the distance, Becky peering over her shoulder just to watch Charlotte gingerly situate herself along the cave floor a couple of feet to Sasha’s right, Bayley on the other side of the mercenary with an equal amount of distance. Earlier, the redhead had offered their navigator her backpack to use as a pillow, and Bayley was doubtful about it, repeatedly asking if she’s sure as Becky continued to nod her head. She knew she likely wouldn’t be getting a wink of slumber, anyway, and, even if she decided to try, she’s more than privy to curling up on hard surfaces.

The perks of prison life when you’d rather sleep on the dusty floor instead of stained, paper-thin pillows.

Their lack of blankets is more annoying than anything, particularly because the temperature has taken a massive nosedive since the rain came through, even more so now that they don’t have the comfort of the sun. Despite the chill, her breath no longer comes out in a fog like it had earlier as a result of the air’s odd moisture, and it’s bearable.

It would be even more bearable if their clothes weren’t still wet, though, and Becky is pretty sure they all smell as musky as the cavern they exited hours ago on the other island. Again, although she brought a single bottle of soap, it went down with their vessel into the sea, and it won’t do them much good now. She even counts herself lucky that she was able to run her fingers through her tangled hair before redoing it accordingly after being tossed and man-handled by the waves, then exposed to the rain for an extended time longer.

Thankfully, she’s used to this life, but the reminder of knowing that the other women are not continues to pop up within the confines of her brain, and she sighs. They’ve made it this far, and she has no doubt of how strong they are as both individuals and as a team, but it’s still tedious. It’s still strenuous and mind-boggling when she wonders how they’re going to proceed in their endeavors to find Avery’s treasure before, at some point, stopping to find their way back to the mainland.

Even if they write in the sand and build a signal fire, there’s still no guarantee that they’ll be rescued. It’s a notion she’s sure they comprehend and don’t need to be reminded of, but Becky wonders how they feel about it when she, herself, is having doubts.

There was only one other time she felt this helpless, this at a loss for ideas, and it was when she had Paige by her side to keep her level-headed. It was the day they stumbled into a territory of savages, un-welcomed and immediately targeted. By that time, they’d been chased by a secret militia and, then, the new colony of people previously unknown to civilization, before poked and prodded until they were caught and thrown into that Panamanian prison. There, the two were told they trespassed and that they’d be spending a good amount of years in that prison. Becky truly thought that’d be it. She thought they were done. Even more so when they were greeted by various gangs within the prison walls, and the Irish woman had her rib cracked by someone who didn’t care about kicking you if you were down. They wanted you to bleed, to suffer, to cry out, to potentially die there on the courtyard dirt.

But Paige kept her optimistic. She picked up on Becky’s pessimism whenever it came to fruition, and made sure to counteract it with words of encouragement and optimism. Throughout Becky’s life, that’s been something vital to how her thoughts remained afloat. She’s always needed someone to be her opposition, even if forcibly so. She’s needed someone to take her woes and say, “Alright, but this isn’t permanent, and I’m with you.”

Okay, so she didn’t always believe that she deserved that type of sentiment and coddling, but she’s been grateful.

It’s yet another reason why she appreciates how Charlotte thinks and operates. How she used to, at least. Becky knows that she can’t put the weight of her sins on the blonde’s shoulders ━ she can’t expect her to carry her burdens and her baggage ━ but she also remains grateful that Charlotte, in her own personality, used to bring vivid rays of sunshine into whatever situation was at hand. Even that day when Becky’s foot slipped on the pressure plate and nearly knocked them into some horrible outcomes, she still wished to stop and appreciate how Charlotte took the time to care for her well-being. No matter if the treasure hunter thought she deserved it or otherwise.

Those little things are what Becky depends on.

Her eyes lift to the stars again, rubbing her tongue along her teeth before nodding and placing her palms flat against the stone. She forces herself to her feet, brushing her palms together and looking into the cave.

She’s not sure how much time has passed since Charlotte went to bed, but it now appears that everyone is sleeping. Everyone except for Bayley, that is, when she begins to stir in place right as Becky passes the glowing embers within the old fire spot, entering the cave.

Bayley sits up, looking groggy but also bothered by her outstretched leg as she all but glares at it, and Becky has to stifle a chuckle at her face. Nearby, Sasha and Charlotte sleep soundly, muffled snores coming from the mercenary while the blonde is facing in the other direction, Becky first staring at the back of her head before sitting down next to the brunette.

“How’re you holdin’ up?”

“I’m holding up,” Bayley answers honestly.

She nods, pausing before looking at Bayley.

“I’m sorry,” Becky confesses. “I truly am sorry for not being honest with you, and… for what happened because of it.”

“This happened because of a rogue storm,” there’s a hint of amusement to Bayley’s voice, causing Becky’s eyes to close slightly before she stares at her again with a gentle grin.

“You don’t believe in karma?”

“Why would it be considered karma?”

“Because I keep telling myself I wasn’t honest with you about the severity of the mission because I wanted to protect you. Preserve you, somehow. Then,” she gestures to her leg, “the total opposite happened.”

Her forehead creases, “Why would you want to protect me?”

Becky sighs.

“You’re not like us. Well, me, mostly. Your stunts… they’re for entertainment, not for being on a vacant, unknown island,” her eyes drift around the cave as she turns toward its mouth. “I didn’t think you’d turn the offer down if I was honest, but… I don’t know. Something just told me to… _lie…”_ she pauses repeatedly, not knowing what she’s trying to say but still pushing herself to attempt some sort of explanation.

Bayley deserves that much.

“Even if you want to protect me, you don’t have the right to shut me out,” the brunette says. “Evidently, that does the opposite,” she flashes her a tiny smile ━ the most Bayley-like ━ and Becky raises her eyebrows in agreement. “I meant it when I said I’m not a child. I can handle myself more than you’re giving me credit for.”

“I know, you’re right.”

“Besides, whether I handle it well or not doesn’t give you free rein to make it so I don’t have a chance to.”

Charlotte’s voice rings between Becky’s ears, reminding her to not make decisions for them, and another sigh is exhaled through her nostrils. Bayley continues.

“You aren’t the first people who’ve tried to hide things from me just because you think I’m too delicate. I’ve dealt with it for most of my life, but that doesn’t make it any easier, or hurt any less.”

The treasure hunter nods while playing with her fingers, understanding.

“You all think I’m some fragile creature that can’t fend for herself. Especially Sasha,” Bayley rants, and they both glance at the woman in mention who snoozes.

A tiny smirk appears on Becky’s face, being both knowing and partly disagreeing.

“I think she just has a soft spot for you,” the Irish woman says, the same, acute grin across her mouth when Bayley turns back to face her. “That empathy she was talking about earlier?” Becky merely purses her lips and raises her eyebrows, nodding at Bayley who begins to comprehend the unspoken remark. “Let her be human, love. From what I hear, she hasn’t been allowed that often.”

In the momentary silence, Bayley allows her words to sink in while Becky’s eyes drift over to where Charlotte is asleep peacefully, back turned and curled up.

“What about you?” Bayley suddenly asks, voice hushed.

“What about me?”

The driver nods toward where Charlotte sleeps, and Becky bows her head while taking a breath.

“I know what you’re referring to, and I can’t make her forgive me━or ‘come around’ like you said. I’m even surprised she agreed to tag along, now considering what we know. Even when she’s talking to me in the least bit… I’m just waiting for…” Becky sighs, rubbing her lips together. “I’ve given her every reason in the world to ignore me. To be _pissed.”_

She looks at Charlotte’s sleeping body again, muttering, “God knows I’ll give her more reasons in the future, even by mistake.”

Bayley feels sad for the woman in front of her, heart aching with her eyebrows knitted together.

“You can’t _not_ try fixing things,” she pleads. “It doesn’t take a genius to see that she wants to, even if she _wishes_ she didn’t want to. It’s not my place to say, but… just keep an open mind.”

The following smile she displays is friendly but still nudging, Becky nodding. Still, Bayley can tell that Becky isn’t in the right frame of mind to consistently delve into her feelings, so she interrupts the redhead’s whirling thoughts and attempts to escape.

“For now, you should get some sleep,” Bayley decides, “or _both_ of us are going to be exhausted tomorrow.”

“Sleep?” it’s paired with a laugh. “And leave you alone to stare off into space? I think not,” Becky chuckles, slinking down slightly and getting comfortable next to Bayley, right arm tucked beneath her head. “I’m staying right here.”

Bayley laughs and shakes her head, joking, “Whatever floats your boat,” as she eases herself back down next to the treasure hunter.

“Or sinks it,” Becky rolls her eyes at the humor, and the brunette snickers.

As the two’s conversion begins to taper off, Bayley and Becky both getting settled with their eyes fluttering closed every now and again, the sounds within the cave die down. There’s little luminance given off from the fire’s still-glowing logs, as well as scarce patches of moonlight that seep into the cave’s mouth before fading as their bodies are stationed further into it.

A sleepiness takes over, Bayley falling as its next victim as Becky remains awake but with her eyes closed. Lying there, she’s the only one awake, subjected to the outside noise of animals’ footsteps and the buzzing of bugs as she tries to focus on anything but her own thoughts that won’t shut up.

At least, she thinks she’s the only one awake.

Because, with two other people between them, Charlotte has had her eyes open the entire time. She’s heard everything.

And Bayley was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally have Charlotte's story (both with Sasha and otherwise)! It's been a long time coming, and this will kinda... nudge things along. I wish I could tell you that they're fully out of the woods of misunderstanding/miscommunication now, but let's be real... we're only halfway through the story -- if that. Take that for what you will. 
> 
> Been working like a busy bee on the upcoming chapters, I promise, so it won't take too long before the next update is out, BUT I'm still reminding everyone that it'll be a tiny break here because I want to get a bigger jump than I've had recently. Plus I have a lot of stuff to do in the near future (side note: I hate adulting), so there's that. Either way, it won't be too long, and at least I've left you on a softer note with everyone (just don't get too comfortable...) 
> 
> Thanks for reading with me again!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're back!
> 
> I feel like it's been forever. Is that just me? I don't know. I s'pose I'll wait 'til the bottom note to fill you in on things.
> 
> Have fun!

MON., 10:16 A.M.

* * *

She touches the rim of the tin pot against the mug clasped between Charlotte’s hands, pouring dark and steaming coffee into the object while the blonde gives her a subtle, grateful “Thanks” that’s more like a whisper.

The pot is set down on a nearby rock with a gentle clink, Becky easing herself down to the stone floor outside the cave with the sun warming the surface little by little as it peeks over the treetops. A shiver still causes Becky to twitch as she plays with her fingers, sulking in the morning chill as Charlotte uses the coffee cup to warm her hands before taking the first sip. It’s bitter yet satisfying, and her pink lips rub together in contentedness while sitting silently.

They’re currently enjoying a fresh fire, just the two of them. Five minutes ago, they had a third spectator as the fire was kindled and nurtured, but, as soon as Becky asked if they’d like some coffee, Sasha stood up.

 _“Actually, I think I’m going to do a perimeter check,”_ she decided with an exhale. _“Just a short walk around the area to see if I can find any paths.”_

At the same time, both Charlotte and Becky lectured, _“Be careful,”_ before turning to each other with a mild sense of humor, and the mercenary hummed dully.

Since then, it’s been quiet.

Within the cave is their fourth member, in the same spot she’d been throughout the night as Bayley remains lost in her dreams with muffled snoozing reverberating through the cave. The noise is comforting, though, since it didn’t come as often during the night. The treasure hunter recalls how the nighttime hours delivered a rather sleepless time-frame for Bayley who constantly drifted in and out of slumber, tossing and turning as much as she could with her frail leg being the prime issue of her uncomfortability. The lack of blankets and proper pillows upon stiff, cold rock likely didn’t help, either.

Becky, herself, also had a difficult time falling asleep, but that’s not to say she’s ever able to achieve a proper night’s rest, anyway. Actually, it came as no surprise when last night provided her a standard amount of rest ━ or lack thereof. Despite yesterday bringing a string of events that bore down on her energy and mindset, Becky still couldn’t find the focus ━ or erasure of focus, at that ━ to tuck her spinning thoughts away. Instead, the time only passed by keeping her eyes closed and shifting her thoughts elsewhere, like when she listened to a certain, single buzzing of a bug outside that sang every five seconds, then some species of owl that joined in every fifteen.

A couple of bodies apart, Charlotte laid wondering if she should flip onto her other side and catch a glimpse of Becky to see whether or not she was still stirring. She doesn’t recall falling asleep, but she only remembers what lead up to it. How she wanted to talk to the redhead. How she wanted to sit up, crawl over to Becky on her hands and knees, brush crimson hair away from tired, brown eyes, and softly request that they sit beneath the stars again. Less straightforwardly, she wanted to walk out of the cave and beckon for the treasure hunter to follow until they got situated feet apart, and shared whatever they were harping on. Selfishly, she wanted Becky to admit to her what she had to Bayley before the brunette fell asleep.

She wanted to hear those words, and the emotion strewn within. It was the emotion that tugged at her heartstrings, that caused her tongue to feel desire of speaking acceptances of unspoken apologies so they could move on from this cat-and-mouse game. So Charlotte could close the distance and kiss Becky like she wanted to, years back. It’s understood that the situation is more complex, that it’d take more than a simple “I’m sorry” and vent-session for the two to fall back together and make any form of a relationship work, but it’d be a start. And a start is better than what they have now.

Because, looking at the bigger picture, she can feel their time is running thin to be sincere with each other. To be open and understanding. To see through the cracks disrupting their collective image. Their metaphorical timer was flipped a long time ago, and each grain of sand passing through the skinny center drops to the bottom with a thud infinitely heavier than its size. Each moment that’s lost, forgotten, is bigger than what it seems. Every second, every minute, every day, week, month, year. They’ve lost too many. And she’s just starting to realize it. Something tells her that Becky is, too.

To Charlotte, the idea of time running scarce is more terrifying than anything she could’ve imagined encountering on this island. _Any_ island, or mass of land. Thinking back, she realized it earlier on the first island, but now that they’re _stuck_ here, now that they have no way of escaping and solely have to work together in order to someday depart, it’s not like she can pretend that notion doesn’t exist. She can’t escape it. She can’t turn away from the concept of their window of opportunity lessening. Becky is _right there,_ and she’s _right here,_ yet both of them pretend that they’re still separated by an ocean. For what reason? “History” is only so much of a reasoning, so much of an excuse, or an answer.

That’s saying something coming from the historian of the group, Charlotte muses.

But, despite all of the reasonings that she thought she had, what if it’s already too late for them? What if she’s ignored the mutual grievances and heartbreak for too long, it’s too late for them to heal? To bounce back, to fight it off, to fall back together and meld their cracks as a pair? They’ll be stuck in a mental limbo forever, floating there with their feelings consuming them. The idea of “What could’ve been…” ringing in their ears until the end of time. In that case, if it’s already too late, then they won’t ever be able to smash through that wall of awkwardness. That wall of mistakes and jumped conclusions that afflicts them more than it should.

Admittedly speaking, on Charlotte’s behalf.

Still, if there’s anything she’s learned while working with Becky again, it’s that time has done their relationship no favors. The feelings are still there. They’re still there, beating fiercely and vividly, but both of them are broken in all the worst places, deep and sharply edged. Maybe there’s no surefire bandage to heal them, either.

In retrospect, Charlotte can’t fully blame Becky for what’s happened. Not in the present scenario, and not in the past, either. The historian is equally as valid to blame, and it’s because she opens the gates to dark voices in her head until they travel so-desperately deep into her body, so-desperately close to her heart. In the end, she can’t ignore them. In the end, she puts blame on others when it’s truly never a one-sided fuck-up. The treasure hunter isn’t the only one who doesn’t know how to filter and sort through her words before speaking. She isn’t the only one who has a difficult time expressing her mind, or seeing from a complex perspective. All this time, Charlotte has mused and held onto the fact that Becky has a two-dimensional way of thinking, that she works with tunnel-vision. While, all this time, she’s been mutually as selfish in comparison to the Irish woman.

She just hasn’t noticed.

Charlotte knows why, though. It’s something she’d heard in therapy, all those years ago: it’s easier to guard your own heart by jumping to the worse-case scenario, first, or by blaming others before holding yourself accountable for something similar. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t have to live with _their_ mistakes, but you always have to live with _yours._

Toxic thinking aside, she knows Becky doesn’t deserve that. No matter what ━ no matter how she’s messed up in the past, no matter how many times she’s unknowingly dismissed Charlotte’s care, dismissed _her_ way of operating ━ she’ll never deserve to have her mistakes held against her when she’s obviously trying to better herself. It’s evident that she is.

_“I can’t make her forgive me.”_

Becky’s saddened words cause Charlotte to bow her head, ignoring the hunter’s currently wandering eyes.

 _“You can’t_ not _try fixing things,”_ she remembers the way Bayley pleaded with Becky. _“It doesn’t take a genius to see that she wants to, even if she_ wishes _she didn’t want to.”_

Again, Bayley was right.

Oddly enough, it’s more powerful when someone else notices it. Your forced ignorance, your forced refusal. Bayley didn’t even know any of them before she joined this venture, yet she’s picked up on the unspoken tension, the history that grinds down on them like a truck dragging along the pavement. Now that it’s too evident, too bold to hide, Charlotte feels that it’s time to stop turning her cheek from Becky’s attempts at fixing things little by little. Instead, she should try leaning into that mending.

After all, they’re never going to get anywhere if she keeps a solid front between them as if it’s a brick wall only with a window cut into it so she can peer through and admire the fiery treasure hunter for her own satisfaction. It’s not fair to Becky, and it’s not fair to herself, either. She’s kept her heart locked behind prison walls for too long, and it’s not helping anyone.

With that said, something tells her that she needs to be the one who takes the next step, who makes the next attempt at patching things up, burying the hatchet, and forgiving both of them. Because it’s no secret that she hasn’t forgiven herself for not doing it sooner.

She takes a breath, tasting another sip of straight coffee as Becky now does the same next to her. The warm liquid slithers down her throat after she revels in it, bobbing her head slightly before her tongue drags between her lips.

“Coffee’s good,” it sounds a bit awkward, a bit misplaced, but she sees the redhead’s features perk up.

“Yeah?” it’s shy but with a dopey grin. “It didn’t lose all its flavor from the water in my bag?”

She laughs, “No.”

“Shocking.”

“What even gave you the idea of bringing coffee?”

“Ah, well,” Becky puts down her tin cup, adjusting her positioning on the rock. “Before we came here, I had to run about the ruins of Saint Dismas’ Cathedral in the snow, as you’ve heard. And I kept thinking, ‘Man, I’d kill for a warm cup of joe right now.’ I know it’s less snowy here but it still warms the insides and packs a punch.”

Charlotte smiles kindly.

“It was a good call,” she settles on saying while resting her lips on the rim of her cup, and it gets a similar smile from Becky who ducks her head.

“Hey, even if we don’t manage to find the treasure, at least I got a compliment outta you.”

The comparison of a compliment from her versus a valuable, once-in-a-lifetime treasure gets a faint shade of blush to color the historian’s cheeks, having to bite the tip of her tongue to stop herself from appearing so intrigued by the choice in words.

“You make me sound awful,” she settles on replying, eyeing the woman across from her.

“Nah,” with a short chuckle, Becky shakes her head. “You’re not, you’re not. I’m just teasing.”

“No, but there’s some truth to it,” Charlotte looks up with seriousness, and Becky’s amusement wears off. “I’ve been giving you a hard time. Actually, I’ve gone out of my way to give you a hard time.”

“I’m sure I haven’t made it easy, either.”

“Oh, you haven’t,” her eyes widen partly, “but still. I should take the high road more often.”

The other woman’s mouth opens as if she wishes to respond, but it only hangs there before closing with a gentle click of her teeth. It’s not like Charlotte figured Becky would have a rebuttal to that, anyway, or a route to carry on with the conversation. She practically just told the redhead that she’s been taking the low road purposely to make her life a living hell out of spite, and that’s not something you can always formulate a response to. Charlotte wouldn’t know, either.

Even so, it seems as though whenever they stop speaking, the everlasting and unshaken awkwardness creeps in like slime poking through holes in the dirt below them. It bleeds into the silence and takes refuge within, trapping them in an odd back-and-forth of only being comfortable when they’re talking about mindless things that don’t necessarily push them anywhere in certain.

Charlotte isn’t sure if this is how it’s bound to be for an extended period of time, forever, or if it’s only here because she imagines it is. No matter what, the concept is bothersome. She’s never been one for awkwardness. It picks at her skin more than it does for most people, and she has no way of ignoring it, or pretending it isn’t there. Judging by the way Becky’s eyes periodically flicker to where she’s sitting, it’s a mutual feeling. Clearly, they’re both able to detect the underlying weirdness that settles over them like an agitating blanket of pins.

The blonde turns to her right and notes the sky’s beautiful blue, the fluffy clouds and the breeze that passes through. She begins to squint at how picturesque it is, then a tiny smile tugs at one corner of her mouth before she turns back to Becky and tilts her head to the side.

“Did your journal survive?”

Becky’s eyes raise at Charlotte’s voice again, but it also catches her off-guard to the point of not comprehending the inquisition.

“Hm?”

“The water in your bag,” her tone is light. “Did it ruin your journal?”

“Oh,” Becky straightens her back, “ehm… probably.”

The answer isn’t the most solid or sure. In fact, it’s so useless to the partial conversation that she sees Charlotte semi-deflate where she sits, her mouth falling into a tiny pout, so Becky clears her throat. She then sighs and makes a face, puffing out her cheeks with a weird noise vibrating her lips before explaining, “The pen’s permanent ink, but I’m not sure how the paper faired being soaked for so long.”

It’s a good question, Becky muses. Truthfully, she hadn’t even thought of it. To her, the journal entries are for fun and later studies, not providing her with information as much as they do entertainment and plain, secondhand bafflement. They’re fulfilling, like photographs taken by a camera, but instead they’re by her own hand. Her own eyes, her own creative instinct, her own fingers and precision. On the other side of things, although that sounds crafty and meaningful, what matters more to her is accomplishing things in real-time, and etching those sequences into her memory. Corny or not, they’re more authentic, that way. When they can be touched, smelt, tasted, studied up close, and overall taken in. Living in the moment ━ that sort of thing.

Charlotte still gives it a sad smile. The notion of Becky’s journal being destroyed in the kerfuffle isn’t something she was hoping to hear. In all honesty, she asked the question mainly for her own benefit. Selfishly, she supposes. She flashed back to Becky’s intense sketching against the paper as they stood near the water wheel in that circular room. With incredibly crafted globes and statues surrounding them, Becky’s drawing still caught her attention the most, and kept her thinking about it. She’s still thinking about it, a day later. Charlotte can almost see how enthused the treasure hunter looked, how childish and driven she appeared to get the sketch exactly how she was witnessing it. She can also feel the same fluttering in her chest as she had when she first caught sight of Becky’s moment of leisure and self-indulgence, her mouth now wanting to mimic the grin she wore yesterday.

Most of all, the historian remembers wanting to see it. She wanted to examine the Irish woman’s creative side, her softer side in a casual element, and through Becky’s personal lens.

Now, it looks like that won’t happen. Not anytime soon, at least.

The historian’s lips seal and she ducks her head with a breath coming out through her nostrils against her will, turning away when she doesn’t want to look so disgruntled, but Becky notices. It causes her eyes to light up, though, in a way that opposes Charlotte’s disappointment. This time, the blonde’s disappointment is less than gloomy, less than painful to the redhead, and it’s something that makes Becky realize why Charlotte asked about it, in the first place.

No wonder the question was so random.

“It’s alright, though,” Becky jumps to comfort, showing her coffee cup a shy smile when she can’t look at Charlotte, directly, “I’ve got plenty of sketches back at the motel, and in storage. And I’m sure I could make these out if I tried.”

The closing words taper off, Becky’s mind suddenly questioning why she’s trying to impress Charlotte so much in regards to something so silly. Something that the historian probably didn’t care _that much_ about, even if she came off as bummed when hearing about their potential atrophy or ruin. Her bashfulness gets the best of her, too, as she turns her head toward the cave with Charlotte doing the same ━ albeit the blonde side-eyes Becky when she notices the woman retreating into her shell. The reserved grin stays on Charlotte’s face, and Becky has to force herself to stop reflecting it so easily, so effortlessly with warm cheeks.

She can’t stand soaking in the moonstruck emotion. She can’t stand feeling like she’s powerless against her oncoming blush, her trembling heart at something so small, so minimal and brashly platonic. She can’t stand drumming up normal comments and questions and conversations into something bigger, something more meaningful, like she’s creating a makeshift crush on Charlotte based on breadcrumbs. Frankly, they both need to be cautious until they know which page they’re on. They have to tread lightly, pick their battles, notice the signs, and quietly hope that they ultimately understand where things are heading. It’s not as simple as they wish.

The hunter swallows hard, taking a deep and abrupt breath, then re-routes the conversation.

“She was up a lot last night,” Becky nods over to Bayley. “The pain,” she explains after a brief pause.

Charlotte stares at the brunette who remains sound asleep, asking, “But she ended up falling asleep?” once she faces Becky again.

“Yeah, finally,” her focus wanders along the treeline, halfway stuck in her thoughts, and she’s caught.

“Why were _you_ up?”

Her voice tells Becky that she already knows the answer. All too well. Moreover, it mimics the expression that came last night as they sat beneath the stars for those few minutes. The historian’s smile is the same, too, being faint yet noticeable and so, _so_ perfect that it causes Becky’s lips to part when her multiple, thought-up responses get caught in her throat.

She has no idea what to say, really, but the way Charlotte looks at her makes her wish she _did_ know. The way her blue-green eyes sparkle with the sun’s light flickering against them, the way her eyebrows raise partly when Becky takes her sweet time finding a response, the way her wavy, blonde hair falls down her shoulders a little more when she tilts her head to the side, the way her fingertips tap against the wall of her tin cup in a sporadic rhythm that’s not sincerely a rhythm at all. She’s patient. As always, she’s patient and ready to understand. Ready to listen, and willing to talk about it. It’s more than Becky can ask for.

The problem is that there’s just too much swirling within her mind. Too much to say, too little time, about anything and everything. About the mission, about yesterday, about her identity crisis, about her past spanning years upon years back, about her future, about her present, about _them_ and _their_ present.

 _Their_ future.

With her tongue rubbing along her lower lip, she goes to look up at Charlotte who still waits with a gentle gaze and attentive features. She’s about to force her tongue to confess that she hasn’t been able to sleep lately for an assortment of reasons. She’s about to fall into a pit of venting to perhaps get various qualms off her mind for the first time in years.

“About to” being the key phrase.

“Found a trail,” Sasha approaches with the interruption, gesturing north-east of where their camp is. “It’s pretty much dry now. I’m not sure where it leads, but it’s the only one I found around here.”

A sigh escapes the treasure hunter’s throat before she can stop it.

“We’ll have to check it out, then,” Becky shoots her a curt and obviously forced smile. “Thanks.”

Sasha either doesn’t notice her visible pang of irritation, or just plain ignores it. With a tiny nod to the universe, Becky turns forward again and stares at the fire’s glowing embers, her eyes lifting just enough to see the historian’s regretful, semi-apologetic shrug as if to say they can pick up on their conversation another time. Becky doesn’t offer much. All that’s returned is a single nod and a diluted grin that all but brushes off Charlotte’s care with a silent “Don’t worry about it.” But she can tell by the way the blonde’s forehead creases they she does worry about it, and it’s a reaction that stings Becky’s chest. So much for tenderness, she thinks.

Luckily for her desire to escape, their collective attention is grasped by Bayley stirring within the cave, a rustling along Becky’s backpack-turned-pillow and a grunt notifying them of her consciousness.

“I’m going to go check on her leg,” Charlotte places her cup onto the ground and pushes herself upward.

She’s hidden by the cave’s inner shadows within the next five seconds, an immediate muttering between the two being picked up on by Becky. Behind her, Sasha still lingers but the redhead can practically feel curiosity radiating off her body, the mercenary wishing to see how Bayley is faring through her injury and it’s inevitable pain. Becky smiles partly, but her lips seal as she’s stuck in her own head. Now that she knows about Sasha’s history with Charlotte, it’s given her a new outlook on how the mercenary operates as a person, but also drops puzzle pieces into place. Thinking back to their first encounter, Becky remembers detecting an underlying tension or defense, something that made her feel like she was a perpetrator. Like she’d crossed a line without knowing, even before she walked into that Springfield garage.

From the get-go, Sasha had her suspicions against Becky, and it makes sense as to why. Still, Becky feels the need for confirmation of her assumption. If there’s anything else she needs to know, then it’s imperative she comprehends before they move on. Only then will she feel rejuvenated by the previous night, only then will she feel like they’re starting anew.

A rock is kicked behind her, her attention brought back to reality when she sees Sasha walking toward the cave with mindless steps and her arms crossed, like she’s trying to pretend she’s not allowing her curiosity to get the best of her.

In a normal circumstance, Becky would laugh at the attempt, but, here, she feels like face-palming herself when she calls the woman back with a sudden “Sasha” before she can stop it.

Becky’s expression is a mixture of self-annoyance and caught off-guard once the mercenary is stopped in her tracks and turned toward her again. All of a sudden, she’s locked into a conversation that she thought she’d be able to keep within the walls of her own skull without necessity to fess up to what she’s been wondering about since last night. Becky’s mouth stays agape as Sasha quirks an eyebrow when the treasure hunter doesn’t give her a follow-up, and it’s far more awkward than anything that’s transpired this morning. Eventually, she’s able to push herself onto her feet.

She timidly walks closer, simultaneously muttering, “Um,” when she can’t think of how to express what she’s thinking, but, after a handful of seconds of picking at her nails through acute anxiousness, she manages.

“What you and Charlotte shared last night…” she tries, mouth opening and closing with hesitation. “That’s why, right?” the question is too vague, Sasha squinting. “Why you’re overprotective of her, I mean.”

The mercenary’s arms tighten across her chest, looking elsewhere and taking a deep breath. Becky can see her defenses raising inch by inch, but she doesn’t deter from the topic. She wants to know. For a variety of reasons, it’s important to her.

“I nearly got her killed more times during that trip than I can count,” the admission is whispered brokenly yet decisively, like she’s now accepted it. “More times than I can live with, really,” her eyes shift to Becky. “There’s no doubt she can take care of herself, but…”

“You’re paying your dues.”

“Something like that,” it’s muted but sincere, however turns serious and unwavering. “I’ll be damned if I put her through that again.”

Becky begins to nod slowly, though her posture stiffens at the following warning.

“I’ll be damned if I let _anyone_ put her through that again. If _anyone_ puts her in harm’s way…”

The treasure hunter detects the obvious challenge ━ the raw truth that dares her to step a toe out of line ━ and, internally, she commends it. Although Sasha was undoubtedly right when saying that Charlotte can take care of herself and hold her own, she still needs someone to look out for her. To make sure she stays safe, content, and thriving. Heck, we all need that someone, and it’s not a knock on how strong we are or how competent, but how we’re human and how we deserve support.

So, outwardly, Becky makes sure to display some of that comprehension and gratitude.

“Thank you,” her recognition is simple, but Sasha stares at her as if it didn’t register. “For being honest, and… looking out for her when I can’t.”

“Don’t play that with me,” the mercenary shakes her head heavily without giving it a second of thought, causing the Irish woman to recoil in part surprise. “I’m not going to give into your pity party, Becky. I don’t know every detail of what happened when you worked with Charlotte the first time, but I also don’t care. I’m focusing on _this_ venture, and,” she chuckles, “what I see now? You’re still not looking so hot.”

Becky swallows hard when she’s put on the spot, ducking her head and shifting her jaw so hard that she’s afraid it’ll lock in place. She can’t blame Sasha for being so frigid, so denying of Becky’s appreciativeness. If it wasn’t for her, Charlotte probably wouldn’t need that protection, in the first place. Not to mention the after-effect of Becky out-right abandoning Charlotte on a pier before leaving without a word, and what that must’ve done to the woman considering how close they were getting. Becky had to deal with the look of disappointment, but Charlotte had to deal with the feeling of rejection. A trade-off Becky never owned up to until now.

“But,” she lifts her eyes when Sasha continues with a fresh attitude, “if she can forgive me… then she can, without a doubt, forgive you.”

It’s a tad softer, and Becky’s clear remorse turns into skepticism, even more so when Sasha concludes, “It’s up to you to figure out if you deserve that forgiveness, though.”

The hunter’s eyes narrow at the impeccable knowledge regarding her internal struggle, and Sasha gives her a wistful laugh.

“It’s not an easy thing to carry,” Sasha shrugs. “Knowing you’ve fucked up.”

“How are you dealing with it?”

The following snicker is obnoxious yet stunned, like she didn’t believe Becky would flat-out say it, and the mercenary rolls her eyes.

“I’m glad we have tact.”

“It was right there,” Becky defends, smiling, “but I am serious. Maybe not about the fuckin’ up part. I just remember last night, and… you didn’t seem accepting of her amends. After all this time.”

“I think she’s too sweet of a person,” the answer is straightforward. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” her grin is dreamy yet toned down, and her heart feels sore at how bittersweet it is.

“She has a mean streak when she wants to, but it’s her defense. You can tell it’s her defense.”

“We don’t deserve her,” Becky decides; there’s no other way of putting it.

They look into the cave in one motion, like they both understood the weight of her claim. There, Charlotte helps Bayley stand up, the brunette hobbling around and laughing as the other woman smiles while scrunching her nose at something unknown. At the sight, Becky quietly adds, “We don’t deserve either of them.”

Sasha can’t reply to the remark. She can’t force herself to, and instead takes a breath. Becky hears the sound and arches an eyebrow to accompany her subtle smirk.

“It’s new to you, isn’t it?” Becky asks. “Feeling.”

“It’s not _new,_ I just choose to not do it often,” she admits while staring into the cave, although surprised at herself for being so blunt. “Not since…” her eyes bore into the same spot before quickly evading everyone, looking down at her feet, and Becky’s mouth opens a crack.

“To clarify… you and Charlotte…?”

The obvious, sunken and derailed tone is certainly inviting. It’s ready to be chewed apart, or dug into with sharpened nails. It’s entertaining, to say the least, and absolutely revealing. Instantly, Sasha turns to the redhead with a smirk of her own, bigger and even more intrigued than Becky’s from seconds ago. Her tongue then presses to her inner cheek, eyeing a confused Becky up and down with a snicker falling from her lips.

At the sound, Becky wants to walk away with a shaky laugh. Why would she ever give Sasha ammunition? Why couldn’t she have left the thought buried in her mind until a later day when she could ask Charlotte? At least _she_ wouldn’t use the curiosity to her advantage. Becky has to suppress a groan.

“Someone worried?” the mercenary taunts, eyebrows raised.

“No,” she lowers her voice heavily, emphatically, “no, not at all. Not worried.”

“That’s a lot of denial in a single answer,” Sasha tilts her head to the side. “Are you lying again?”

Within mere seconds, Becky feels like she’s backed herself against a wall. Into the corner of a five-by-five room with nothing to hide behind. She looks just as stunned as she feels, too, which doesn’t help worth a damn. Sasha’s smirk is all too knowing and invasive as she eyes the treasure hunter up and down, but it all comes to an end when she then walks away without another word. To Becky, that’s more cryptic than anything.

She stands there, eyes widened in dismay while wishing to remind Sasha that she didn’t respond, but what good would that do? The words are lost in her throat, no matter what. Completely caught. Erased, even. How the hell did that happen? How did Sasha possibly flip a conversation on its head within the span of a few ticks of the clock? And did something really happen between Sasha and Charlotte, or is her head spinning things by its own free will? Does it matter, if something _did_ happen?

“We should start moving again,” she blinks and lifts her eyes to see her three partners standing there. “We’ve wasted enough time sleeping in.”

“Right, right,” Becky’s voice is hoarse, having to clear her throat and refocus her mind. “Pack up. I’ll kill the fire, then I’ll be right there.”

A single pair of eyes lingers on Becky for longer than the others’, Charlotte being the last to walk away. They study her intently, even more so when the Irish woman avoids her stare by turning her head and scratching the back of her neck in pretend that she’d spotted something above the trees. The awkward action was followed by shaky fingers running through bright hair while wandering over to the fire and squatting beside it, still ignoring Charlotte whose gaze burns into her back. She gives the hunter a strange look, one eye squinted with a partial grin showing, but she doesn’t question the way Becky pretends to be unbothered by something that is _obviously_ bothering her. Charlotte has learned not to question it, truly. Becky’s mannerisms change from day to day, and she’s decided that it’s nothing new. It’s part of her personality. Just another quirk.

Charlotte smiles, finally walking away.

As footsteps taper off into the distance, Becky’s eyes threaten to peer over her shoulder but she manages to hold herself at bay. It doesn’t fix her teetering mind, though, as it shifts back and forth between harping on what Sasha said ━ or _didn’t_ say ━ and the measly fact that she has to refocus on the day’s impending events. There’s a strange, internal battle that causes her to shake her head repeatedly, gritting her teeth and mouthing to herself that she needs to forget it and move on.

It’s time to do what she does best in treasure hunting, and she refuses to let anything change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to refer to this as the calm before the storm... and I'm not referring to another rainstorm. So, just... hold onto this little piece of happiness because you'll be needing it. But don't get too comfortable. Not to spoil anything, but it gets tough. There's a lot of back and forth coming up, some of which will make you want to tear your hair out. BUT we're advancing on the trail, which is the prime focus of the upcoming chapters. The second half of the story is more so Charlynch based and mainly focused on character development. Here, we're kinda puttering along. Hope we're not ~dragging~ on, though. That's been a main fear of mine, so I apologize if it's ever so extended. It doesn't help that my chapters keep getting divided since they keep growing to be ~11K and I have to split them in half to keep pace. Ah, well. 
> 
> Anyway, so I took a little break (as you know), and I took my time writing a bunch of chapters so I could get the jump-start on this section of the story. Since the fic has become so long (I'm telling you, we're probably like halfway through which means we're heading into a forty-chapter [maybe] territory), I have another break in mind, but you don't have to worry about that right now. I'll let you know when it's coming up, and again it shouldn't be a long break. 
> 
> I hope everyone's still enjoying, and I hope everyone's been having a good week/month/2019 so far!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are having a great weekend/start of the week/etc. 
> 
> P.S. thanks for all the "welcome back" messages (whether here or on Tumblr)! :')

MON., 11:15 A.M.

* * *

Four sets of boots tread the ground in a group, all in a concise sound crunching along dried, fallen leaves and twigs from the tall trees beside them. The setting is backdropped by chirping, cuckooing birds hidden within the foliage, also the flapping of their vibrant wings whenever they take off and fly together. It’s evident that the sunshine has brought various wildlife out in numbers, and, if the women didn’t hold the fresh memory of being slammed into the island by force, they’d wonder if they were walking through a remote wildlife conservation. They’d wonder if they were simple hikers bound to reach a tip-top view of the water, of the rest of the island’s rock formations and trees, those birds soaring high in the sky while reveling in what they do best.

So far, the women have enjoyed their hour-long hike. Aside from the ache in their bones that’s finally catching up to them, that is. They’ve enjoyed their mindless chit-chat and shared theories about where the treasure may be, where this winding path is ultimately taking them, and how the weather is certainly bright, comforting as opposed to yesterday. It’s like the world and their adventure have been reborn together, repackaged with delicacy. The newfound atmosphere gives them something new to look forward to, truly. Something exciting, something _promising._

What Becky originally intended for the trip: payoff, and not in a “monetary value” sort of way.

It hasn’t just given Becky a peace of mind, though. In Charlotte’s mind, the unfamiliar, light film toning their surroundings until they look more gentle, more airy, wholeheartedly helps her mind remain free of the thoughts she hadn’t owned up to until last night. The thoughts that have afflicted her well-being and way of operation since the very beginning. The thoughts that have occurred with a vengeance since Becky stepped foot into that Oslo museum, lying down a deal that ground against the blonde’s resolve until it crumbled into nothing. Today, she’s been able to partake in conversation and warm up ━ both figuratively and literally ━ in regards to the adventure. She’s been able to share her own ideas, drop brief comments here and there, and share glances with Becky without feeling like there’s something amiss. She’s been able to breathe out.

Thank God she’s finally able to breathe out.

Indeed, there’s still an underlying fear ━ that underlying paranoia that reminds her not to let her guard down too easily, not to pretend that the air is wholly free of both the storm and the tension straining amongst their group ━ but at least, now, she feels like she’s part of the team. She’s not just tagging along, or floating beside them. She’s not just here in hopes for an outcome that’ll fix something deep within herself, nor for Becky’s treasure-hunting fulfillment.

Now, she’s able to admit that Becky was right about the idea of taking risks. The idea of gambling with something small for a larger, more valuable reward ━ even if unseen, even if solely for the prize of knowledge. _History._ Because that’s what life’s about, isn’t it? Taking risks. Exploring, and wandering beyond your “average.” Of course you shouldn’t force yourself into something uncomfortable, something troublesome with a vast probability of losing more than you gain, but, at the end of the day, Charlotte knows she complied to this expedition for a deep-rooted reason she didn’t want to admit earlier.

She enjoys this. Nay; she’s _missed_ this.

The foreign sights, the exotic sounds, the scents, the embodiment of forgotten ideas and land and legends and everything in-between. She’s missed it all. The thrill, the anxiety, the twitch you get when thinking of the unknown. Maybe she gets equally as high on it. Maybe Becky isn’t the only one with an obsession, a thirst for constant satisfaction in the form of discovery.

A smile crosses her lips, a familiar vibration spreading throughout her limbs. Her eyes bore into the back of Becky’s head as they walk, admiring the treasure hunter’s mirrored absorbance when faced with what the island has to offer. Her arms are bent, hands grasping her backpack straps while walking casually along the dirt path. Occasionally, she turns her head and examines the other side of the path and similar trees, roots, plantlife, sometimes poisonous frogs hopping from branch to branch. All the while, her frame is tiny, like she’s realized how small they are compared to the terrarium they’ve stepped into. In the near distance, a flock of large, red birds fly above them with grace, Becky’s chin lifting with her eyes following them, and Charlotte watches the woman beam with her teeth sparkling.

The sight is enough to warrant a smile from the historian, herself, until she tries hiding it once Becky glances over her shoulder. Her focus is set on Bayley, for the most part, catching the brunette’s mouth dropped open at the impeccable views, and that beaming grin turns into a smirk.

“Worth it, eh?”

“It’ll be worth it when we find the treasure,” Sasha answers before Bayley can open her mouth.

Becky rolls her eyes with a lightheartedness.

“I don’t think I was talking to you, Pinky.”

It’s Sasha’s turn to roll her eyes, and Charlotte has to stifle a laugh when the mercenary makes a mocking face at the back of Becky’s head. No other response follows, but the blonde presumes that Becky didn’t seriously expect one from Bayley, anyway. Not when she’s this engrossed, this mindless. This _distracted_ from her leg as she’s walking with a limp, yet somehow keeping up with the group. Charlotte periodically looks down at it, making note of how she moves in case she has to lecture the woman for not catering to the wound. They may need to keep moving on the trail, but earlier she’d lectured Bayley repeatedly to notify them if she needs to rest at any point. Becky had, too. Though, when Sasha lastly joined in, Bayley stared at her with sparkling eyes disrupted by a sigh, then a nod. Becky gave the awkward exchange a tight-lipped smile, but saved the both of them by breaking the tension with an uppity _“Everyone set?”_

With a round of hums, they set off from the night’s camp with packed bags and a fresh batch of hope that assisted in ignoring their aching bodies. They know they have to push through it if they want to get anywhere.

“I see a clearing up on that peak,” Becky points ahead. “We’ll climb and take a breather. See where to go from there since we don’t have much to go on.”

“We don’t have _anything_ to go on,” always the factual ━ and _blunt_ ━ one, Sasha intervenes with the dull reminder.

“The island ends at some point, lass,” her hands grab onto the rock, pulling herself upward along the stone wall. “It’s here somewhere.”

The optimism is a reach but still comforting, they find. There’s absolutely, _undoubtedly_ a massive amount of land to cover, but, since they’re stuck here for however-long, they have time to scour the island’s grounds with little-to-no other obligations. If the treasure is here ━ since, judging by Avery’s trail, that’s not a given ━ then they’ll be sure to find it at some point. They just have to keep moving, and keep thinking with the idea of positivity. Becky may dread it, but even _she_ has to admit that it’ll do them better than debating if Avery purposely sent them here to die. What a thought, on the other hand.

Her ascent to the lid of the rock wall is swift. Another day at the office, as she put it yesterday. One by one, she helps each of her teammates onto the slab of fresh stone, pulling them up by their forearms with a sturdy grip.

Bayley is first, nudged in front of Sasha who wanted to make sure she was there at the cliff’s base given that the navigator couldn’t scale the wall with her gimpy leg. Three minutes later, she succeeds with flying colors, and Sasha exhales from where she stands below, seeing Becky pat Bayley on the shoulder in a cheeky approval. The brunette smiles and passes by, observing the various, large boulders on the plateaued clearing of grass and dirt, scarce ferns, and otherwise few trees that face the ocean. Overall, it’s like a crop circle in the middle of a field, substituting barley for foliage that’s a dense jungle on the inner side and little to none on the outer, nearest the shore’s direction.

As Bayley crunches along the untraveled, dry dirt, her accomplishment is followed by Sasha who grabs onto the indents in the rock one after another, forcefully ignoring the widespread ocean that comes into view on her right side. The mere thought of over two-hundred feet of open air separating her from the rocky shore below is already enough to make her cringe, even more so when she’s scaling a wall and _adding_ to the height. Still, her brittle reputation whispers in her ear, all but shooing Becky’s charity work of a gesture by brushing the woman’s hands away when she goes to help. Although rejective and usually considered cold, the redhead knows it’s all in good fun. It’s all part of Sasha’s personality. The mercenary is nothing if not independent and determined, and Becky knew that from the get-go. She wouldn’t change it, either.

Last but not least, Becky helps Charlotte onto the cliff by offering the woman her hand instead of reaching for her without consent, and the historian pauses while looking at her. There’s a moment in which there’s hesitance, partial confusion but also an agreement between them. Becky, at first, thinks that Charlotte will shrug off the help and proceed without it, like she’s mimicking Sasha’s independence. But, at the last second, delicate fingers reach out and tickle Becky’s palm until her hand is firmly clasped with a trusting grip. They both swear they feel static in the gesture, but also try to hide the acknowledgment.

It’s so simple, so normal and unspecial, but, in retrospect, it’s everything unspoken being locked between their hands and shaken without a second thought, without a leery “Wait a second…” or “We’ll see how we feel when the day is done.” It’s a present feeling, and a spur-the-moment decision they’re pushed into by their leaping hearts and timid extremities. It’s the culmination of their decision to work together despite the odds set against them, despite the odds that they set against themselves. And, once Charlotte is standing a foot or so away from Becky, they’re able to match each other’s gratitude and comprehension. Before they’re interrupted by the same person who interrupted them this morning, that is.

“Shit.”

That’s not good, Becky thinks.

She puts an absentminded hand on Charlotte’s elbow while passing her so she can stand next to where Sasha is, right at the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea. But, once she catches a glimpse of what the mercenary is referring to, what her posture is stiffening at, she’d prefer to walk the other way and ignore the sight. Realistically, her body freezes in place, natureful sounds replaced by unrelenting white noise in her ears, and she has to blink herself out of the automatic trance so she can dig into her backpack and scoop out the compact binoculars.

With more force than necessary, the lenses are pressed to her eye sockets in a secret hope that she’ll put so much pressure on the area that blackness will replace a normally crystal-clear vision. So it’ll erase what she sees out on that ocean, and erase what that sight means for them. It won’t do any good, though, and she knows it. It won’t erase reality. The sooner she understands that, the better.

Because, as she watches five or six or seven speed-boats approach the island in a pack, she knows she can no longer pretend that they’re still safe. Her throat bobs when she swallows her fear, fingers clenched around the binoculars until her knuckles turn white while studying the logo on each of the vessels: an eagle shaped from stripes and stars, awfully resembling the United States Postal Service’s crest. In fact, it looks like a nixed design by the USPS, shotty and imperfect, somewhat lopsided and too damn bright. Too damn patriotic, too, in a way that forcibly crams an American flag down your throat.

A sourness stirs within her stomach, being blended into a froth that makes her want to be sick. She’s sure her face becomes pale, outwardly, and she’s surprised Sasha doesn’t mention it when she can see the mercenary side-eyeing her once the binoculars are lowered. Becky sticks frozen where she stands, boots not even tapping against the rock beneath as her mind spins into a sudden overdrive of outcry and panic that’s hardly even computed by the section of her brain that standardly handles heavy thinking. Her intelligence can’t keep up with her anxiety, and her body’s alarm begins to overtake the rest.

She knows too much, and the others know too little.

“Doubt that’s the Coast Guard,” Sasha mumbles after a long string of silence.

“I’m going to guess they’re not here to rescue us, then,” Bayley adds.

For the first time since spotting the boats, Becky manages to twist where she stands as she gives Bayley a saddened look that’s also ferociously speechless. Her lips are parted, features out-of-tune, and her eyes dart away from the brunette who merely nods when she gets her answer.

Brown eyes then drift over to Charlotte who has remained unmoving and unspeaking since Sasha’s initial _“Shit”_ broke their concentration. But, when the historian returns the eye contact, Charlotte notices how faint the redhead looks, how utterly yet quietly manic her exterior is. Like her night of sleeplessness randomly slammed into her to the point of being on the brink of collapsing on the spot. It causes Charlotte to frown, but the reaction is turned away from, as though her acknowledgment of Becky’s frazzled state spooked her.

“Good thing you have insurance,” the purple-haired woman flatly muses, cocking her gun with a skilled grip. “Better get ready.”

She’s set on bending down to search through her backpack for the spare ammunition she’d scavenged from the boat’s emergency box, but Becky stops her.

“No time,” the disagreement is rushed, body language stiff. “Let’s just get moving.”

Behind them ━ across the clearing and past multiple boulders ━ is the thick jungle prim and proper for them to wander into and disappear, hidden from the perpetrators who drive toward the island at top-speed. It’s ironically inviting, being a place to get lost or stow away from unwanted predators when you’re otherwise exposed out in the open. It’s their only option, as well.

Becky doesn’t wait for them to agree, and she flat-out ignores the way Sasha’s head tilts at her idea being dismissed practically before it was even in the air between them. She ignores all of their looks, their concern and skepticism, and spins on her heel so her eyes are zoned straight into the forest ahead.

Two steps are taken, then a thump is heard. An out-of-place thump, metallic and heavy. But what comes next is even more out-of-place, all too familiar and absolutely mind-numbing. Because, directly after that small thump pounds the dirt merely ten feet into the clearing, a sharp beeping noise follows, and it picks up speed faster than her mind latches onto what’s happening.

Charlotte does realize, though. She realizes before she even listens to the sound of a single, threatening beep. The thump was enough of a warning, and enough to make her skin crawl with flash images of shrapnel falling around them, scattered memories blown up by similar hand grenades.

Her eyes widen on instinct, adrenaline kicking into effect as she tackles Becky behind a boulder with her arm protecting the woman’s head while managing to cover her own ears. The dirt in front of them explodes and shoots upward in a spreading mushroom-cloud of smoke, clumps of dirt and loose grass raining from the sky as a nearby tree gradually pulls its roots from the ground until it’s toppling over the side of the cliff.

They have less time than they thought.

Gunfire suddenly erupts, instantly trailing the grenade’s explosion as bullets whiz past the rock that hides them, also deflecting off the face of it to the point of hearing pinging and sharp whistling. Becky can tell, from the speed and echoed sound, that they’re facing culprits with possession of a machine gun or two. Not a good outlook for her team, especially as they’re pinned down at the very edge of the clearing with a tall drop behind them.

Long gone is the chirping of birds, the cuckooing and serenity that relaxed the foliage around them. Now, the vegetation is stiffened and subjected to the sins of humanity, and Becky chokes on a breath beneath where Charlotte still keeps her safe until the shooting lessens, then stops entirely.

Now, with no other sounds cushioning their movements, they keep their breath halted and their motions to a bare minimum. Their eyes even close when they hear the footsteps of boots treading further into the clearing.

“We know you’re here,” the condescending, gruffy tone of a man bounces off the stone, and Becky can tell he’s a charmer ━ _not._ “Show yourself!” the following yell shakes the area, and Charlotte jumps to the point of her partner feeling it.

Careful not to make too much noise, Becky slides her body against the dirt so she can peer to her right, and Charlotte eases off of the other woman just enough to do the same once realizing what she’s trying to do. Through the smog, they’re able to make out the outlined heap of Sasha looking back at them, back straightened against an adjacent rock. Deep breaths rise and cave her chest, and Bayley is situated right next to her in a similar fashion. Everyone is intact.

At the thought, Becky ignores the voice in her head that adds the ominous “For now.” She instead fixates her eyes on Sasha, waiting for a signal. Slowly, with footsteps drawing closer little by little, with dry pebbles crunching beneath the man’s hardened soles, Becky calmly draws her gun from its holster, and Sasha wields her own with a professional grip.

Although she wishes to protest, Charlotte eases off of Becky and gives her more liberty to move. Given the right time and circumstance, she’d prefer to hold her in place despite the red-hot anger and _I knew it_ ’s that wait to spill over in retaliation to her claim of this being something simple, something straightforward and not as dangerous. Becky warned them this would happen, sure, but she also downplayed it. She also made it seem like this would be a piece of cake. Now look where they are. Look what they’re facing. _Who_ they’re facing. This isn’t simple. This isn’t straightforward or less dangerous, and it’s certainly not a piece of cake. The only reason they survived that surprise grenade was due to Charlotte’s sheer instinct. Before that, Becky was waltzing across the clearing with a stoic posture that displayed a set knowledge of danger. Obviously, she knew what they were in for right as she saw those boats, yet she still didn’t own up to it.

It’s their first adventure all over again. It’s Shambhala all over again, as well. At least, that’s what her panic screams. The blood ferociously moving at the speed of light through her veins, the adrenaline that builds up in her chest and creeps up her throat until she thinks she’s close to gagging on it.

But she pays attention to the situation at hand, not wanting to somehow stunt Becky and Sasha’s efforts to keep them running. To keep them _surviving._

While they lie in wait, the lasting smoke from the explosion disperses more and more, but it’s a curse rather than a blessing. With their screen running thin, Sasha knows their time is leaving with it. If they’re going to get the jump on whoever these people are, they have to act quickly. Or now.

So, turned to Becky, she lifts her less-dominant arm and gives her a solid thumbs up. Becky knows ━ without a doubt ━ the unspoken plan.

Before another second passes, both women peek around and over their rocks, guns ablaze. Their first victim is none other than the man who’d been taunting them, tracking them like skittish animals, but they pay no attention to his lifeless body thumping against the ground. With focused expressions of knitted eyebrows, they shoot in the same direction, a blend of gunfire and shouts coming from men who are hit in the carnage, but also the sound of others scuffling to find cover against the retaliatory shots. Timing herself with practice, Becky stops to smoothly reload, meanwhile feeling more bullets pepper against the rock that her back presses against. She feels her blood pressure spiking, rising higher and warmer, all while her jaw clenches tightly. Once ready for another round, she turns to get on her knees and assumes a better angle, Charlotte watching her carefully with nausea causing her to feel dizzy.

Sasha continues to shoot, aiming this way and that with her arms locked and both hands on the pistol, managing to take out three men within the span of ten seconds once they emerged from the smoke. Neither Sasha nor Becky are positive how many soldiers they’re facing, but, every few seconds, more are seen through the floating dust. Nevertheless, the mercenary proceeds to shoot gracefully and with pinpointed accuracy while Becky takes her time being more careful ━ almost painfully so where she judges Sasha for her less-practical approach.

“Do _not_ waste ammunition,” Becky scolds over the sound of their enemies’ shots.

“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have, sweetie,” Sasha yells back and a loud groan is heard once she hits another soldier, Bayley cringing and Charlotte’s eyes slamming shut. “Besides, I don’t count it as ‘wasting’ when I’m actually getting my job done.”

A shaky breath exits Becky’s throat for the first time during the skirmish, and Charlotte stares at her with concern. The woman’s grip shakes on the handle of her gun, resembling the highest nerves or maybe even her own mild form of PTSD that she refuses to accept. She remembers it happening once in their prior expedition together, even with far less men to defeat, how Becky’s fingers shook for the rest of the night ━ surely noticed when she couldn’t hold a mug properly. She didn’t mention it then, and she won’t mention it now. However, as they’re stuck behind boulders with nowhere to go but forward into the fray, her trembling has apparently intensified, yet Becky also looks too determined to quit.

In fact, the redhead grips it tighter with bared teeth, like she’s noticed her own hands’ dismay and is punishing them for it. Charlotte is about to force out some words of firm comfort, but she’s cut off. Becky turns her body again and squats behind the stone, knees hinged so tightly with her camouflage pants taut against her thighs and her head ducked only enough to hide most of her face behind the rock. She can’t see anything ahead, and her wariness lingers. Even Charlotte, without being able to see, notices that something is off. Becky squints.

No smoke, but also no people. No gunfire, either. No speedy bullets, or grenades. She can hear rustling, though, and her eyes peer past the five departed bodies on the ground of the clearing, blood mixed with dirt trailing around them and disrupted by boot prints. She nearly gets too comfortable poking her head out from beside the rock when a man shouts, “There! There!” and the gunfire begins again, causing her to hastily recoil before gritting her teeth and pressing her toes to the ground with a new plan in mind. Charlotte is all too aware of her plan, though, and wraps a harsh grip around the hunter’s bicep.

With brown eyes on her, the historian can’t formulate an outstanding thought outside an endless loop of “Don’t you dare” and “I am _not_ letting you do this,” eyebrows furrowed with her mouth opened in such an incredulous manner that Becky thinks the blonde is going to shove her backwards in contempt. In another wave of betrayal, moreover. She looks _pissed._

But Becky can’t afford to sink into her shell and drown in saddened, ocean eyes right now. Not with gunfire flying over the rock they hide behind. She can’t afford to admit she’s in over her head with this. All she wants to do is push forward against the grain, shove her morals aside to do what needs to be done, and advance on their trail. She wants to save them with Sasha’s help, then protect them now that they know what ━ or _whom_ ━ they’re dealing with. So, as she feels the grip on her arm loosen, she shrugs it off with a shaky, conclusive breath and detached features.

“We’re not going to get anywhere without taking risks,” she repeats.

The reminder gets a callous snicker that comes out like an exhale with Charlotte’s mouth opening, closing, her hand finally letting go of Becky’s arm. Actually, she kind of shoves the woman’s arm away, and Becky has to keep to her mask of ignorance. Internally, however, the blonde’s attitude is an unspoken “Go, then” that burns the Irish woman’s ears and drives through her heart like a rusty nail. It’s hard to bear, and she knows the fallout of it will be even worse. She nearly hesitates to scratch her plan and cater to Charlotte, yearning to shake her head at her own, stupid decisions and, instead, think of something else that’ll ease the historian’s anxieties.

But she’s in too deep, and, still, she’s in way over her head.

The gunfire comes in waves few and far between, Sasha holding her own without consistently hitting her targets now that the field has become narrowed. Without warning, Becky peeks out from behind the rock before dashing to another, rolling behind it and dodging three, solid bullets that are shot in her path. The mercenary’s eyes widen when she catches Becky advancing toward the source of their foes, mouth dropping an inch open.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Sasha hisses, and Charlotte’s body begins to shake with her hands balling into fists when she can only imagine what Becky is about to get into.

“Maybe,” the redhead replies honestly, dipping down behind a smaller rock even closer to the source of the rapid, machined shots.

Sasha grunts and checks her clip, clapping it back into place while muttering, “She’s making this so much more difficult.”

Bayley leans her head back against the rock, chin tilted upward and taking deep breaths while trying to pretend that they’re somewhere more peaceful. Sasha notices her unrest and debates on staying put to keep Bayley safe above anyone else, but she also has a duty to keep them all protected. Besides, they won’t do any good on the island without Becky, and, currently, the redhead is most in harm’s way.

Sasha looks at Bayley who turns to her with fragile eyes, directing, “You, stay put,” and receiving a rather happy nod.

In any other circumstance, Sasha would chuckle at Bayley’s lack of desire to join the transpiring, explosive events. Unfortunately, she’s too busy making sure Becky doesn’t get herself maimed by approaching the source of the gunfire and, inevitably, their enemies.

She chases the treasure hunter five feet further before a second grenade is tossed in front of them. In a swift move, both women manage to dive out of the way, covering their heads and primarily their ears while taking refuge behind another rock. They remain unscathed for the most part, but their forearms don’t muffle the sound enough and it causes a ringing to disorient them. Fortunately, they’ve both dealt with their fair share of explosions both near and far, and it’s easily shaken off as Sasha groans and Becky loosely moves her jaw back and forth.

Smoke surrounds them, though they see shadows of dirt pieces, grass clumps, and twigs falling from the sky with trees tipping over until they tumble down the cliff with their roots detaching from the rock. They’re sure that the clearing looks like a barren wasteland now, staining the island’s original beauty. That, alone, is a disheartening thought.

Becky frowns as Sasha proceeds to take out the remaining men north of them once she catches a glimpse of someone rushing to the left, but what gets the redhead’s attention is a scuffling coming from the direction of where she left Charlotte. As she runs back to the source, through the dust, the silhouette of the historian comes into view. Becky makes out the sound of breathy grunts, groans, and bone against bone, rushing toward the area even faster to see Charlotte holding her own through hand-to-hand combat against two grown, bulky men. The historian fully lands three, major punches to the face against one, a knee to the other’s groin as he falls backwards off the cliff with his screams fading into the distance until they’re halted by hard ground.

All is good and well up until then. Up until, through a blur, Becky sees the remaining soldier get ahold of a struggling Charlotte, forearm tight against her throat and choking her. And he’s _smiling_ about it.

She’s only feet away now, and the assailant notices Becky holding the gun straight in their direction, eyes unblinking, arm stiff, frame solid. A smug grin is then flashed at the treasure hunter, provocative and cunning, as Charlotte is used as a human shield with her frame in front of his.

But not enough.

Because, with two bullets to his shoulder and head, a stone-faced Becky proves to be a better shot than she used to be, and the man collapses into a heap behind Charlotte. Not without some of their enemy’s blood speckling the historian’s skin, though, and she begins to shake where she stands. Her composure begins to deteriorate, to break down and decay until she’s left just as lifeless against the ground. Her knees vibrate, arms dangling by her sides as she turns to look at the body behind her, then back at Becky.

The Irish woman wishes to run over to her, but she’s too wide-eyed to do anything. Too wide-eyed to apologize for leaving, to apologize for letting the assailant get too close, to apologize for _everything._ Instead, she listens to the sound of a final gunshot echoing behind her, inviting hellish silence into the clearing until birds resume singing in the distance. Like nothing happened once the dust has settled.

Becky turns away from the carnage, her heart sitting in her throat as she blatantly avoids the furious, teeth-grinding look that Charlotte shoots her from where she stands on wobbling legs with her fists balled.

“I think that was the last of them,” Sasha comes closer, seeing Bayley’s eyes peek over the top of the rock where she’s been hidden. “For now, at least.”

Feet away, Charlotte is now hunched over, catching her breath and narrowly escaping a panic attack that tries to break through again and again. She doesn’t let it, but it takes every ounce of strength to ignore the pinching in her veins, the sting behind her eyes, and the thumping in her ears. All of that mixed with the anger she feels, the searing disbelief in terms of how Becky is seemingly working on autopilot and ignoring the fact that they nearly just died. _Again._ Ignoring the fact that she just left her alone when there’s strength in _fucking_ numbers. Ignoring the fact that, because she left her alone, two men got the jump on her and they all nearly found themselves in an impossible position.

Ignoring the fact that not every risk is one you have to take.

Charlotte is at a loss. Is it a defense mechanism? Is it a lesser form of a catatonic state that’s made her numb to fear? Is it ignorance by force? Does she _truly_ have a goddamn death wish? What the _fuck_ is it?

God, this is all karma for giving into the thought of burying the hatchet, isn’t it? All of her optimism about it, blowing into her face like a smoky cigarette puff. All of that positivity she’d been riding on, the feeling of being set free by her confessions of last night. All of it constructed a bowling ball of karma, and she’s the lone pin in its way. After all this time, nothing is shifting. Nothing is feeling any less tedious, any less scary, or dark, or begrudging. After all this time, life is still slapping her in the face when it comes to Becky. Brand it a wake-up call, perhaps. It doesn’t hurt any less, being proven wrong in terms of her hope to start over. Her hope to move past everything with Becky by her side instead of looking everywhere _but_ at what they could have together. Her hope to construct a future, maybe.

But what use is dreaming about a future with someone who may not have one, no matter what, due to their own frivolous decisions?

A shaky breath exits her throat, and Becky’s jaw clenches at the sound with her eyes slamming shut. She’s heard the same display of unbridled anger in previous cases, but never this bad. Never this weighted, this fierce without spoken word, and she already wants to hold out her hands in Charlotte’s direction with a calm, promising explanation that she didn’t mean to bring this upon them. She didn’t. She truly didn’t. And she’d say it repeatedly, over and over until it stuck, but she knows Charlotte wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t try to, at least. Nowadays, Becky’s room for fucking up is next to none, and that’s not to say it’s unearned. There’s only so many times a person can be pushed until their perception is permanently overrun by expecting the worst, but Becky swears she didn’t mean the stress. She never did. She never would.

_Shit._

Feet away, Bayley timidly stands up from her hiding spot behind the rocks, but she doesn’t get far. Once she has her good leg outstretched and is ready to ease herself upright, Sasha gently commands, “No, Bay, don’t move yet.”

The nickname is what mainly causes Bayley to comply, her nod accepting of the care and Sasha’s determination to look out for her. She lowers herself back down to the dirt, keeping her eyes away from where the mercenary stands and instead finding interest in the still-standing, nearby shrubbery. Becky watches Sasha for the both of them, the mercenary only moving once Bayley is back in place without peering over the stone.

Like usual, Sasha opts to do a quick body-search. She carefully steps around each fallen man and presses two, straightened fingers to the pulse point beneath their jaws, making sure no one has survived the carnage. Making sure no one can follow them, once they leave the clearing. Her boots avoid the blood splatter and overall carnage, being less cringe about it than she used to. The mercenary's first venture with Lazarević made her more insensitive than she’d like to admit, nowadays, the mastermind encouraging her to be cold to other soldiers. To spit on them, to throw fists in designated fight pits in their camps against the men, to make others bleed for the fun of it. She was the only woman on his team, so to come across condescending reactions and tones wasn’t foreign. At the end of the day, she was perfectly willing to show what she’s made of, and she mastered the skill of doing so. Lazarević was proud.

Of course, her current team is nowhere near as deplorable or anti-empathy. They’ve dug the best parts of her out from beneath the worst, even if riddled with their own issues. So, as her eyes scan the grounds and note the violence, the reddened mud and the opened, glassy eyes of men who’ve lost their lives, she can’t help but taste the wateriness that comes before vomiting, contorting her face before needing to turn away.

She focuses less on the loss of life and more on raiding each soldier of their ammunition and whatever else she finds useful, making quick work of it. In this case, two black flashlights are discovered, then slid into her backpack with an exhaled “I’ll be taking those.”

Behind her, Becky checks her rounds and accepts the amount with a self-directed nod and frown, slapping the container back into place before cocking the handgun another time. It’s slid into her holster like previously, then she eyes the foliage while Sasha bends down again.

This time, she finds a grapple and a coil of rope on one of the assailants, the hook a few levels more technical than their standard instruments, but still useful. Particularly since Bayley lost her backpack and all of its contents within the sea, and there’s no doubt they’ll be facing more jumps, climbs, swings, you name it. Her fingers wrap around the hook, and she’s about to stand up when her eyes land upon a spare pistol that’s perfectly intact, perfectly simple and easy to use.

Her lips seal as she peers over her shoulder in a debating manner, ultimately picking it up and holding both her own gun and the new weapon in each hand. On a whim, she makes a decision while walking across the gravely dirt in Bayley’s direction. Without a word but with accompanying reservation, as if she has no idea what she’s doing anymore, Sasha gingerly offers the brunette her old gun. There’s a hopeful ━ yet also already-knowing ━ half-assed grin across her lips, like she knows the offer is silly but still with good intention, and, at first, Bayley’s brain fails to escape the woman’s kind eyes until she looks down at the firearm.

“Oh, I━I can’t,” it’s stammered out, peering up at Sasha.

Although she’d fired multiple prop guns in recent years, Bayley doesn’t find her expertise up to par on a real battlefield, and she shakes her head at the idea. It’s not something she’s afraid of in regards to protecting herself, but predominantly the idea of handling something so wild and explosive. And she hopes her words display the lack of panic or irritation. Because, truly, she’s thankful for the effort to include her in hard decisions and risky situations without shying away from believing she can hold her own in down-and-dirty scenarios. She’s thankful that she’s not being treated differently, this time around, or any less of a badass.

But, at her overall hesitance and dismissal, Sasha’s shoulders still slump in partial embarrassment, finding the words to comfort Bayley with “It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

It’s as if Sasha thinks that she’d crossed a line with the suggestion, as if she put her heart on the line but realized that it was somehow offensive or not good enough. And Bayley can tell that’s what she’s thinking, what she’s kicking herself for. So, as Sasha slides the extra gun into her backpack, Bayley jumps to break her forming insecurity by adding, “Thank you, though,” as it catches the mercenary off-guard.

Her motions come to a halt, and she looks down at Bayley to see a smile on her face, eyes shining from the scattered sunlight dripping over the thin line of trees. It’s oddly like they hadn’t just been caught in a gunfight, like she’s entirely calm and ready to be their group’s own ray of warmth. _Sasha’s_ own ray of warmth, specifically.

She has to swallow a misplaced soreness that appears in her throat, nodding to the brunette’s remark and forcing her own, plastic smile despite the circumstances. She breathes out, deciding to change the subject. Deciding to clear the air of her smitten, butterfly-ish feelings that _shouldn’t_ be occurring right here, right now.

“I did take another grapple, though,” she confesses. “You can use mine, if you’re more comfortable considering…”

Considering the fact that the new one belonged to a dead man.

The end of her explanation is lost, but Bayley understands.

“Help me up,” the request comes through a faint grin, and Sasha delicately pulls the brunette to her feet with two hands.

Once Bayley is sturdy, Sasha takes an intentional step backwards to block the woman’s view of the bodies scattered along the dirt and molten grass, tilting her head to the side and saying, “Just don’t look at them, alright?”

“I want to,” Bayley is quick to say with a frown, unreadable but, in a way, decisive. “I need to get used to it, don’t I?”

The other woman’s mouth drops open, ready to refute the notion of comfortability when it comes to these things. No one ever has to “get used to” seeing dead bodies lying scattered along the ground, no matter if those bodies belonged to people who made the first, dangerous move. Sure, this is the chase of treasure ━ one of the ethical trade-offs for that so-called glamorous life once you’re swimming in wealth ━ but it’s not like the mercenary wishes such a gruesome scene upon anyone. Especially Bayley. She doesn’t deserve to be stained with that image. No matter if Sasha has vowed to treat the brunette as less of a soft-hearted, virtuous, common citizen and more like someone who can survive on their own, she still doesn’t deserve to be subjected to such depictions.

Her mouth hangs open, about to force a dismissive answer with pleading eyes, but she doesn’t have the time.

“We have to keep moving.”

Becky sounds emotionless, no fewer rushed than earlier when she tried escaping the clearing before they were ambushed. Similar to then, the treasure hunter doesn’t wait for the others to agree or disagree, wandering into the foliage’s entrance when she finds a skinny, overgrown path that hardly looks like a path at all.

But she doesn’t get far. In fact, she takes two steps into the greenery when she’s stopped rather instantly by the fury that’s been silently brewing nearby. Charlotte being the fury’s embodiment, previously with hands on her knees, gasping for breath, and simmering like oil on a skillet. One can only bite their steel tongue so much until their teeth shatter.

“Is this what you consider ‘in the front door and out the back’?”

Becky stands facing away, lips pursed at Charlotte’s incredulous words until her jaw ticks.

Behind them, Sasha knows this won’t be any good, and her mouth contorts in a mild, _“yikes”_ expression that’s accompanied by a deep breath and hands on her hips. Bayley wants to break the altercation before it even begins, remembering the good times of last night no matter what they’d faced before that. She wants to remind them that they can get through it, despite the tension between them. She also wants to protest that _she’s_ still damaged, yet found it within her to keep her cool with them. If she can do it, why can’t they? On the other hand, the brunette comprehends the idea that no two people are alike. No two people handle things the same, or react the same, or display care the same. Because, honestly, that’s what it comes down to when Charlotte and Becky interact: _care._ Maybe this is just their shitty way of doing it.

She decides against interrupting, minding her business as Charlotte stands feet behind Becky with an assumed, hostile demeanor.

“Your words, remember?” the reminder is hollow, and Becky spins around to take a defensive step closer.

“I didn’t ask for it to go this way, and, come to think of it, I told you there may be some trouble,” the rant flows with ease, albeit equally as tense. “If you want to blame someone for the lengthy hunt, blame Captain Avery and his co-founders.”

“You’re going to turn out just as crazy as they did,” it’s more sad than anything, cracked in the middle but with red remaining in her gaze. “I’m _worried_ about you, can’t you see that?” she’s pleading with her, but Becky’s fists ball by her sides.

“You _agreed_ to come! You already knew how I operate,” the Irish woman cries out. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to look around, Becky! We’re in the middle of nowhere, _stranded._ Bayley’s leg is still hurt. We now have people _shooting_ at us. We now have people throwing _grenades_ at us,” Charlotte lists with wide eyes. ”We’re no closer to finding this shit as we were when we got to that first island!”

Her bullet-points and animated speaking cause Becky to shake her head and brush them off, not wanting to be dismissive but also not caring to break down on the spot. Once again, she can’t afford that.

Charlotte begins to lose it, tears coming into her eyes without bothering to hide them. One step forward and five steps back, she thinks. Always.

“Your pride is going to get yourself killed someday, Becky, and I refuse to watch,” a single tear drips down her left cheek.

What she really intended to say went a bit differently. Her mind screams to reiterate. To tell Becky that her pride is going to take her away from the blonde someday, and Charlotte won’t be able to deal with losing her when that happens.

Her words are weighted by water, like she’s drowning, and the redhead’s heart clenches enough to actually make her recoil a step backwards. At first, her focus examines the ground for something else to pay attention to, something to grant her distraction from the frustration and heartbreak that’s directly a result of her stupid decisions. But, in the end, Becky’s stone-like facade proves too strong against Charlotte’s crumbling mindset, and her jaw clenches hard. In the end, she dares to argue back with a choked-out, somber laugh.

“My ‘pride’?” it’s asked with a deep, settled frown. “What pride, Charlotte? This is what I do, this is my life. I didn’t ask you to watch _anything.”_

“You asked me to come!”

“Wait, guys,” Bayley’s kind voice interrupts them, virtually unfazed by the unfolding debate.

At her concentration being broken ━ at her attempts to break Becky’s synthetic resolve being shattered, diminished, and unsuccessful ━ Charlotte wants to stomp her foot against the ground. They’re never going to get past this, are they? They’re never going to get past this disagreement about Becky’s choices, her tendency to risk everything instead of paying attention to the fact that she’s only human. The fact that she’s not invincible, and someday Charlotte is going to lose her for good because Becky literally refuses to understand that. She refuses to admit it, or even listen to the notion that she can’t keep pretending to be the hero, to be the savior, the one to put her body on the line for the “benefit” of everyone else. For the benefit of Charlotte, or the benefit of finding treasure.

Becky, herself, is more of a treasure than anything the redhead will ever come to know, and that’s ironic considering she’s in the presence of something so valuable every day yet fails to realize it. Her heart, her soul, her epitome of passion, determination, love, admiration. _She_ is the treasure.

A second tear rolls down Charlotte’s cheek as her eyes squint. She slaps the drip of water away, crossing her arms tightly and turning from Becky who watches the historian have a silent fit. There’s no way Charlotte is going to look at her again. Not now, anyway. Becky rubs her tongue along her teeth before facing the brunette, keeping her voice calmer than moments ago.

“What is it, Bayley?”

“Look at this.”

A couple of steps past Becky, where another boulder sits, Bayley spreads apart a fork of vines and pulls them from a wooden board that’s been set against the stone. Her hands brush against the green, tangled lumps with care, also clearing it of leftover dirt and dust as the dryness puffs into the air. With a proud smile, she turns to reveal her finding, and Sasha is first to have her mouth drop open.

“Is that...?” she takes a tiny step closer, but is ultimately passed by both Becky and Charlotte on either side of her.

“Avery’s sigil,” they breathe out in unison, their eyes equally as wide, intrigued, and mouths agape.

Upon the board is Captain Henry Avery’s sideways-skull and crossbone sigil, carved into the surface with a sharp object. His calling card. His symbol. The one thing he left at every site he’s been known to have visited. Immediately, Becky knows he was here, and, immediately, she knows they’re on the right trail. She can tell Charlotte knows it, too, by the way the historian’s eyes search around the area as if she yearns for another sign, and Becky decides that it’s time to start moving again. Maybe another piece of the trail will calm Charlotte down further, and quash her suspicion that their strives are for nothing but pain and failure.

Becky places her hand on a tree and walks further into the foliage, her partners following close by while all eyes are peeled for something more. They observe their surroundings little by little, the birds’ chirping now fully resumed with the sun’s rays flickering in their peripherals whenever it sneaks into the jungle where they walk. For the most part, Becky keeps her attention burning into the ground in front of her, cautious of any traps if this is, indeed, a warmer trail.

Five minutes pass before there’s a break in the jungle, and it mirrors the clearing they’d exited. This time, however, Becky’s face brightens into a newer, even-more genuine smile.

Her foot is placed on soft grass, thicker than anything they’ve seen today, and she timidly steps out from between two, skinny trees. Before her are two to three, broken-down houses that are so close together, it’s nearly a single building. They have greyish white walls, windows collapsed with aged, wooden shingles hanging off the sides of each, and their terracotta roofs have major holes blown through so sunlight filters into the buildings. Overall, they’re covered in vines and moss and scattered flowers of a yellow color, nature taking over the manmade structures without apology. Even so, there’s no doubt that this was part of something in Avery’s journey, maybe even built by his men.

On the face of them, only one’s doorway remains intact, being an opening to the central house that’s, of course, the most collapsed. Becky wanders over to it. Meanwhile, everyone’s eyes roam the area, amazed by the new scenery in comparison to the otherwise-empty island. Rich in nature, but not in structure, at least.

The treasure hunter stands at the threshold of the center house, peering downward once noticing that the building’s floor has fallen due to erosion. Light streams from a source on the opposite side of the house, though, broken support beams casting shadows onto the floor as she tries craning her neck as much as possible to see where the exit is. It’s on the house’s southern side, for sure, but she has no idea where it leads, anyway. From where she stands, the structure resembles a basement with a hatchway tucked into the corner of the low, dirt floor, being the same amount of mysterious as an everyday basement. Except this one doesn’t seem up to code when three out of four walls are caved in, large boards are criss-crossing in their obvious path, and the doorway creaks as she puts a hand on it.

She flexes her fingers against the splintering wood, trying to get used to the sound that taunts her.

“Down here,” she throws the curt explanation over her shoulder, then drops down into the space with a thud.

Dust puffs out from beneath her boots once she’s settled on packed dirt, keeping an eye on Bayley who stands beneath the doorway. She studies its frame and its clear age, opting to ignore the thought of it collapsing on them. Considering her wounded shin, Becky is impressed when Bayley lands safely and without a mere wince or throaty grunt, nodding at the brunette and getting a mirrored reaction in return. Her other two partners follow without issue.

Their curiosities take over once they’re all moving about the basement-like area, spinning in place and nimbly shifting along the ground. Even Becky looks intrigued by it all, despite the lack of pirate-like objects or marquees. Her eyes sparkle just as much, lips parted, chin tilted upward, shoulders slumped, admiring the dust they see gliding through the air within the streams of sunlight. The immense awe only dwindles once she squints. Without warning, she slides her backpack down one shoulder, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth. Charlotte notices but doesn’t say anything. This time, she doesn’t smile, either.

Becky pulls her journal out from her bag, eager to know if it really is ruined by the ocean. Anxious, too. She might’ve told Charlotte that it doesn’t matter, but she’s now realizing that, if she bears witness to more pirate structures ━ which they inevitably will ━ then she won’t be able to record them as she has in the past. That’s the worst part. Although she meant it when admitting that absorbing scenery in real time is what she counts on, she’ll still miss the memories when they begin to fade. Pictures don’t fade as easily, even if the events and people portrayed do.

Her fingers trace the cover of it, its face already proving that the outlook isn’t good. She grimaces. It’s bent, wavy and curled at the corners. Ink bleeds out along the pages’ edging. There are friction tears along the side, as well. With that said, much to her surprise once she opens the journal, it’s not that bad in contrast to the cover. Some of the pages are stuck together whereas they’re all crumpled, occasionally crusted over. For the most part, on the other hand, they’re in tact and her permanent pen lived up to its expense. The ink has stayed in most areas except for a few, and Becky can make out the water wheel she had drawn yesterday while in the globe chamber.

She smiles at the turn of events, then begins to draw the collapsed houses with precision. She hears the muffled sound of Sasha and Bayley talking in an adjacent, collapsed room where the other exit is, while her hand sketches an image of the buildings from the memory she acquired only minutes ago. A smile stays on her face as she does so, blissfully content despite the thick atmosphere that radiates off of the blonde standing feet away.

Watching out of the corner of her eye, she views Charlotte looking around with her chin tilted upward, studying the sunlight that warms the insides of the tattered establishment. She looks enthused but faintly so, afraid to step anywhere but in the single spot where she twirls in place. Her motion looks small, as well, childish and shy. Like this is new to her again. Like the fire-fight quite recently caused her to revert back to how she was when they arrived on that first island.

Becky sighs through her nose. She can’t let it end this way. She can’t let Charlotte’s fears come to fruition because of something she did, even if she knows it had to be done. They’ve made it this far. They’ve reconnected, at least on some level. She can’t let them restart on bad terms. Not without making an effort to counteract it, that is. Not without proving that she, too, cares and worries and… _loves._

And, shit, does she love a lot. Showing it? That’s a different story.

Her journal is closed with a muted clap and she slips it back into her bag before tugging the backpack onto her shoulders. She grabs the straps of it, crushing them in her hands while psyching herself up to approach the blonde whose body stiffens once she notices their newfound proximity.

“Back there… I…” Becky stalls, personality muffled by trepidation as her hands fall from the bag’s straps. “It was a close call.”

Charlotte flashes back to being held by the man, the scent of sweat flooding her nostrils as she faced Becky who hardly blinked at her captive position. Before Charlotte could even formulate a mere thought or the strength to mouth something to the treasure hunter, two rounds were ending the man’s life while the heat of his blood speckled her skin. While the heat of it burnt her skin, and seeped into her pores to infect her bloodstream. Her mind, even. Her sanity, too. Without a second thought, without a taste of comprehending what the consequences would be, Becky shot the man dead, and it only proved that she’s been so over-exposed to this life that it’s usual to her. It’s not dangerous anymore. It’s standard.

In that moment, realization hit Charlotte. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure if she was more so angry at Becky, or afraid of her.

Currently, she just feels disappointment.

“It was,” Charlotte replies, stone-faced and cold. “You could’ve shot me.”

The implication causes Becky’s face to contort in insult and hurt. It’s as if their roles have been reversed within an instant, and, honestly, Charlotte wishes she could take her words back. They may have been honest, but maybe too brutally. Maybe too straightforwardly or untactful. And, sincerely, maybe she doesn’t even believe what she said, herself, but it’s too late to take it back. Now, it seems her anger has transferred to the redhead, and they’re bound to continue a volatile dance that, by now, doesn’t appear close to subsiding.

“I would never,” her voice cracks, frowning heavily. “If I didn’t know, one-hundred percent, that I could make the shot, I wouldn’t have. I would never gamble on your life like that. Please never think otherwise or insinuate that I’d━” her eyes mist over for the first time Charlotte’s really seen, but it’s gone as quick as it came. “I want you to know this isn’t just fun and games to me,” Becky tries getting through to her. “I understand the severity of my actions, and I know, considering _your_ past with these scenes━”

“Are you sure it’s not all fun and games to you?” a heartbroken Charlotte counters. “Because it really seems like it is. Even after the storm and the wreck. I thought things would change, but…”

“I know. I know it seems that way,” Becky stresses as her eyes slam shut, flickering open afterwards. “I told you I’m not good with showing what I truly feel, but I’m trying to change that. I _do_ care,” she pleads, and, for a few seconds, Charlotte wants to believe her. “I _do_ worry about you, too. So much.”

Charlotte stares at her. She can see the apologies coloring brown eyes that carry on with the begging once her words stop. But it’s not enough. Not now, anyway. She can’t take the time to pause and force herself to believe that Becky means well when her actions say she’d do anything to get ahold of Avery’s treasure. Deep down, Charlotte knows Becky wouldn’t put her life on the line. She knows she wouldn’t put Bayley or Sasha’s on the line, either.

It’s only her own life that she deems expendable, but that’s no better in Charlotte’s opinion. That’s equally as devastating, as heartbreaking and worrisome. And that’s where the problem will proceed to lie. That’s where they’ll never agree, and Charlotte won’t even agree to disagree. There’s no contest in that area. Becky is _not_ expendable, and she’ll be damned if she ever stops fighting against the notion.

Charlotte licks her lips and looks down at her feet. A quiet sigh escapes through the crack of her lips before she raises her chin and tilts her head at the hunter’s confession.

“We have a lot of ground to cover, Becky,” she stares at her, sadly, and the Irish woman picks up on the reminder of her words from back then. “We should stay focused.”

Becky’s throat grows sore, standing in place and muttering, “Yeah, we should,” before sealing her lips in sorrow while Charlotte brushes past her. Her eyes sting with unshed tears as she remains unmoving, wiping away the acute amount of water before sucking in a sharp breath.

_It’s time to do what she does best in treasure hunting, and she refuses to let anything change that…_

...except for her unrelenting emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so... I'm sorry for ruining your fun. BUT! Thankfully, it's only momentarily. Like I've said, we're dealing with a lot of ups and downs until something finally snaps. And you'll know when that happens, trust me. 
> 
> I've absolutely NEVER written anything dealing with battlefield-oriented violence, so I hope it was easy to follow. Since it's Uncharted, there will be plenty of it. I won't let it take away from the scenery factor, don't worry.
> 
> To end on a positive note: How about that Baysha? Spoiler alert: Bayley is already a badass, but she'll soon be a top-tier badass. Whew.
> 
> With that said, I'll see you next time!


	18. Chapter 18

MON., 12:12 P.M.

* * *

It takes another minute for Becky to join her teammates within the adjacent room. Another minute of deep breathing and psyching herself up with balled fists and tightened shoulders gradually relaxing until she feels a fuzziness behind her eyes and a dizziness in her head. Like something’s snapped, or given out. Like some part of her resembles one of those dual boat motors that died during the stormy ride to this island. Like she short-circuited.

Except, right now, the setting contrasts what Becky feels on the inside. It’s perfectly sunny, bright and warm with a subtle breeze filtering through the broken-down house, whereas the treasure hunter feels ruined ━ though not completely ━ and tired. So, _so_ tired. By all means, she’s the humanoid embodiment of a storm. And it’s all because of her own actions, her own consequences. A product of her own making. All because she’s too desperate to stay away from revealing her genuine fears, qualms, _feelings._ All because Charlotte can see right through her as if she’s glass, yet she _still_ refuses to expose herself for the fraudulent hero that she is. She refuses to admit it.

Maybe, in some sense, Charlotte had a valid argument regarding her pride. If Becky couldn’t see it before, she certainly can now.

It’s a constant cycle with them. With herself, moreover. Things are looking up, up, and way up, but in the blink of an eye, they topple over. In the end, she’s forever too prideful to mention how she’s just as fragile as the rest of them, just as prone to collapsing, yet somehow the nipping bug of optimism infects her, only to have her pessimism ultimately say, “I told you so.” Against her better judgement, she lets that acute optimism sink its teeth into her while pessimism treats her with harsh love. It’s a tug-of-war battle. She should never believe that things are going to go right. She should never believe that the universe is bound to be kind to her when she’s done nothing to make it so or earn its rewards.

To reiterate: unless you make it your mission to achieve positive outcomes, you’re yet another pawn on the universe’s chessboard — and the universe doesn’t give a damn about what you want. It gives even less of a damn about what you _don’t_ want.

Her lungs fill with a gradual breath, Becky rubbing her eye with three, stiffened fingers before slapping her arm back to her side. In the following steps, she ducks beneath a beam with minimal sand dropping onto her face, though she brushes a cobweb from the bridge of her nose.

The others come into view as she crosses over the next room’s threshold, its space even less held together. Wooden crates are scattered and stacked at its corners with the majority of them caved in on their sides, the loose boards ready to disintegrate. Despite that, they’re made of thick wood, splintered and stained with occasional holes poked through. Other than those samples of lackluster decor, the room is simple. It’s smaller than the last, presumably to the point of a claustrophobe itching to escape it, and the house’s exit is at the southern side of it. From what they can see, it leads through to the outside ━ merely judging by the fresh warmth filling the air until it’s clammy, and the vegetation that drapes into the cellar-like room. With that said, they’re unsure if it was originally an exit, or solely crumbled under the years’ mounting exposure to elements positive to rot old wood. There aren’t any clear cuts in the boards above, the exit quite frankly being an approximately four-feet wide, gaping hole with broken boards surrounding it. The planks’ edges are worn down, chipped, as if someone fell through the ceiling above to create the crawlspace. Slivers hang down, as well, holding onto the slabs for dear life with their tips daring the women to come closer so they can slide into smooth skin like the worst of papercuts.

Sasha stands with her hands on her hips, studying the opening. Her chin lowers in a straight line, face fallen flat while she examines the height between the floor and the upper platform where they need to go. Becky sees it, too. The verdict is that they’ll need a boost to lift themselves onto the platform, and there’s no way around it.

Charlotte and Bayley turn around when their conclusion shortly follows, eyes roaming the area with Sasha and Becky doing the same. Personally, the redhead is just happy they’re on the same page regarding something so simplistic.

Collectively, the four women detect the most intact crate residing within the compact room, tucked beneath two petite, broken boxes that’ll easily be pushed over.

Sasha turns to Becky, eyebrow raised.

“Shall we?”

It’s the first time she’s been able to muster a small laugh since the shoot-out ━ albeit still absentminded, like it’s not a laugh as much as it’s a relieved exhale.

“You read my mind,” she agrees as they walk over to stack of boxes.

They dig the sturdier box out from beneath the two lesser ones, dropping those to the side and brushing their hands off. Charlotte and Bayley remove themselves from their partners’ path, taking a few steps back.

“One… two… _three,”_ they both groan at its weight, how old equipment and products are much denser than the quality nowadays, but nonetheless successfully scrape it across the dirt floor while evading a single rock that threatens to send them flying forward in an abrupt mishap.

“Pirate quality is no joke, huh?” the mercenary puts her hands back on her hips once the crate is beneath the hole in the ceiling, and Becky’s eyes widen in agreement.

“No kiddin’,” her hands clap together, soon free of spare sawdust with a puff of it floating in the air. “Right, then.”

Charlotte watches the redhead place her palms flat against the box’s top before propping herself onto it. A subtle creak is heard in the process, the general, twinge of panic overcome once Becky uses her upper-arm strength to pull herself onto the top level with a grunt. Bayley is next, foremost maneuvering her bad leg onto the crate before grabbing Sasha’s forearm for mere support ━ her intention being solely to push off of the mercenary without being helped. Sasha had other plans; Bayley is propelled up onto the crate with a gentle push, the mercenary’s mouth dropping partly open when it wasn’t necessarily intended. A natural reaction, of sorts. Force of habit.

As a result, Bayley looks over her shoulder at Sasha, giving her a silent yet joking lecture that she didn’t ask for her assistance, and Charlotte side-eyes the mercenary when she sees a lighthearted smirk forming. Sasha isn’t sorry at all. Not really, at least. Nor is Bayley sincerely irritated.

Charlotte can’t help but bow her head and give them her own smile. After all, Sasha deserves her own piece of happiness. Her own hand to hold and a gentle aura radiated by someone so… _sunny._ It’s nice to see. If the historian can’t find comfort in her own relationships, then she’ll find solace in someone else’s. Someone beyond deserving, despite what they’re lead to believe.

Above them, Bayley pulls herself onto the platform with ease and even quicker than Becky had done a minute ago. It’s a low-key form of showing off, and it’s evident ━ especially to the person it’s directed at. Sasha raises her eyebrows until an impressed yet challenging, _“huh, alright”_ snicker emanates from her throat, following suit and accepting Bayley’s silent dare. In almost languid motions, Sasha tackles the obstacle without breaking a sweat, soon eye to eye with the navigator. Four steps away, Becky tries to mind her business. She fails, but tries, nonetheless.

Her intrigue is caught by the historian who remains standing at the crate’s base. Charlotte watches Becky’s dashed staring, her studying of the two women next to her. Admittedly, she holds the same unvoiced enthusiasm, even more so when they’re both creasing their foreheads once Bayley ushers a quiet laugh.

The brunette smiles ━ reasoning initially unbeknownst to the others ━ when she spots a random ladybug sitting upon Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha looks at her confusingly, trying to twist her neck a bit to see what Bayley found as her mind jumps to the worse case scenario, A.K.A. her worst fear: spiders. She tries to keep calm, stuck in place while Bayley calmly slims the distance between them and uses her thumb to corral the ladybug onto her pointer finger. The discovery is shown to Sasha once Bayley lifts it between their faces, though the brunette looks past the bug and instead into the mercenary’s reassured gaze.

“You’re lucky,” Bayley flashes her a childish smile, and Sasha seals her lips while trying to hide her own.

Becky makes a face behind them. She notes how close they are, how thick the air feels as a result of their proximity, but she ultimately ignores it. Below, Charlotte pushes away her mutual investment while finally clearing the obstacle and pulling herself onto the platform. The sound of her climb being the only thing that breaks up Sasha and Bayley’s moment, although only enough to separate them by a handful of inches. The mercenary rubs the back of her neck, then pretends to stretch her back out.

With their minds refocused, the group notices how they’re surrounded by trees on two sides, and their only way of advancing is straight ahead. The foliage is suddenly dense, completely obstructing their side views so they can’t see through the twisted and knotted limbs and thick leaves. Even ahead of them, despite the open space, it’s hard to make out anything aside from open air, and, after ten more steps, Becky’s arising suspicion is proven. Because, once she walks over to the very edge of the deck-like slab they’ve climbed to, they’ll have to jump down to a lower platform, then walk across a bridge-like deck to see where they’re heading next. A wooden connector between worlds, in a way. How symbolic, she thinks, but also exhaustingly vague. Still, she supposes that this is another notion of not being guaranteed a neon sign pointing in the right direction. As long as they move forward instead of back, can she really complain?

“This way,” she looks behind her, then bends her knees and drops from the ledge with a hollow thud.

Luckily, it’s not a lengthy drop, meaning it shouldn’t be an issue for anyone ━ even for Bayley and her messed-up shin. With that in mind, and with trust that Sasha has their backs, Becky doesn’t waste time by stopping to watch their single-file jumps.

In all honesty, she could use a breather, or a minute to think. Sadly, her blood remains clouded with sparking adrenaline and tightly wired fuses, all waiting to be ignited for whatever the next reason may be. She knows her group hasn’t seen the last of those men, those grenades and gunfire, and they can’t afford to dawdle to the point of being caught off-guard by another encounter. By the _inevitable,_ next encounter.

Her mental, red flags stay prepped and set upward, eyes open and darting across the area in front of her. Moving swiftly, diligently, but only until something on the left catches her attention, almost to the point of missing the second, short drop in front of her when she takes another step forward. The toes of her boots hang over the edge, spare wood chips dropping onto the lower surface, and her heart jumps at the small scare. Her arms spread out wide to balance herself, breathing out a stunned laugh of disbelief for nearly falling onto a terracotta roof below without catching herself beforehand. As always, she thanks her gift of reflexes. But, even then, her captivation doesn’t diminish with the minor shock. Her eyes stay zoned in on the thinning trees, the sparse blockage that obstructs her view of what’s hidden behind. All she knows is that she can see the colors of faded reds, oranges, and teal-ish green. Colors unlike anything else they’ve seen within the jungle, aside from the crushed houses they recently exited.

Footsteps approach from behind her, Becky looking over her shoulder to see that they’ve caught up. Without a word, their mindful footsteps tread the bridge-resembling section of wooden boards before Becky is first to drop onto the roof below. Thankfully, it doesn’t buckle or merely crackle as her boots hit it, knees bent until she straightens her posture with slow movements that only turn even slower as her chin lifts and that former captivation morphs into an expression of sheer amazement. Dumbfoundedness, more like. A blissful disbelief ━ or a childish disbelief, like she’s stumbled upon the one thing she’s been tracking down for as long as she can remember. Like her effort has paid off after years of wear and tear on her soul. On her _sanity._

Her motions gradually come to a halt, frozen in place atop the roof while looking out at the scenery and blatantly ignoring the women behind her who, once on the roof, do the exact same.

“Holy _God,”_ Sasha is the only one to find her voice, jaw left hanging open.

Even if the others were able to formulate a proper thought, their words would come out borderlining the same idea. Floored entirely, not even portraying the tip of what they truly experience due to the unique setting they’re subjected to.

Standing atop the terracotta roof, the group bears witness to a backdrop of the island’s central, tallest mountain range surrounded by a mist of fog that bleeds down into yards upon yards upon _acres_ of fifty or so houses. A residential area, it appears, like a town out of an old storybook with beautiful greenery decorating cobblestone walls, roads, more reddish roofs with opened yet structured windows, doors, everything else that makes an ambiance aged yet memorable. The houses slope upward along the mountains like a layered cake, some being fully consumed by the fog while creating an eeriness with their silhouettes, while the others stretch to only thirty or so feet from the base of the roof they stand upon. Rusted and bent lamp posts line the streets and alleyways, looking like they’ve stepped into a natural, small-town painting where everyone knows their fellow townsmen. Like kids could skip down the street and wave to everyone without being branded a stranger. There’s a familiarity to the setting, light, crisp, and sweet. Contentment, even, as though they’ve arrived back home after years of being away. Despite never seeing the place before, it’s like they’re home.

Minor details are noticed after the initial picture is wholly admired. Colorful flowers poke out of the town square’s circular road surrounding a single statue of a pirate founder, grass accompanying them looking soft and healthy. Overhead, those same, red birds glide past the roof until they’re drowning in the mountain’s fog to the group’s left, but their chirping never fades. Vacated, wooden carts are parked along the sides of buildings, some with a wheel or two missing, crashed a foot or so away, while others are still ready for functioning. Even fruit stands are set up on the outskirts of the central cul-de-sac, and they peacefully wait for their operators and tenants to return. A somber sight, once they think about it.

Generally speaking, a larger percentage of the buildings’ walls are upright and solid, the same as they were intended, as the area is more so abandoned than ruined by people or weather or anything else. Almost like everyone up and left, simply tired of their small, middle-of-nowhere city to the point of wanting to go somewhere with brighter lights. Somewhere with less stories to tell, Becky muses.

Charlotte feels herself breathing deeply, her chest expanding and caving with a composed state. Meanwhile, her lips remain parted at the sight. For all she knows, it’s a mirage. An exquisite painting, straight out of some esteemed art museum as the canvas infinitely stretches so they can’t find its end. It’s as if they’ve set a famous portrait in front of them and stared at it until they can touch its contents and feel the flowers’ petals, their silky edges and prickly centers where insects hide. She can smell the fresh air, being different than it was within the jungle they emerged from thirty minutes ago. Here, it’s completely unpolluted by society. In her mind, they’re staring at the idea of bareboned civilization before it was destroyed by humanity. They’re staring at nature’s own refuge. Its own conservation where animals roam free within walls that pirates built years upon years ago. The town has been overtaken by wildlife and Earth’s original, green life-form, despite the stories that these walls could likely tell.

It’s remarkable, she decides. Admittedly, these are the moments where she realizes that she can wholeheartedly understand Becky’s unmatched love for this life. She can fully understand why the treasure hunter is willing to put everything on the line to achieve this time of fulfillment, this type of reward.

_“The most broken-down people and places hold some of the most touching history and stories to tell, even if they don’t know it.”_

The blonde looks at Becky, actually turning to her and studying the woman’s profile as brown eyes stare out ahead of them. There’s a childlike glint in her eye. A kid on Christmas morning, truly. Charlotte’s heart flutters, but her lips seal as she bows her head.

Finally, with a fresh grin and a last-minute, forced blink, Becky manages to breathe out one word:

“Libertalia.”

For the tick of a clock, her emotions run rampant in the form of a sudden breath and misty eyes. In that short period, she lets them; she supposes that she’s due for a tiny crack in tough character, her unbridled facade of flat attitude. After all, she’s been working to find this place for so long ━ _too_ damn long ━ and suddenly she’s here. Suddenly, she’s standing on a rooftop within the fact-or-fable realm of Libertalia. She can almost feel Paige beside her, too. God, for the first time in forever, she can feel that chilled, ghostly mist reach for her hand and wrap around her wrist as the sensation climbs up her arm and to her throat. It tightens its grip on contact, threatening to make multiple tears spill down her cheeks with no plug. She feels some sense of accomplishment, as well, even if worn down by how they’ve reached this point.

It’s been a while, and she willingly soaks in Libertalia’s confirmed existence, even at the risk of ignoring those red flags still prominent within her brain. She soaks in what it has to offer, like the fresh air, the yellow sun shining down along the roads, the various places of establishments, the view of houses upon houses extending far and wide and fading into the distance.

Becky has no idea where to start, but she’s glad she’s here. She’s made it. In light of her adding struggles and personal contempt, she’s made it.

“It’s not every day you see something like this, I’ll own that,” Sasha breaks the silence between them, the background of chirping birds cushioning her voice.

Her admission earns a shiny grin, Becky then turning to her equally astounded teammates and asking, “Happy you came along yet?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. It’s like the question was rhetorical above anything else, supported by the way she faces the neighborhood in front of them with a readiness to explore without moving.

Either way, the mercenary raises her eyebrows at the question ━ the knowingness in her tone ━ but her admission doesn’t waver. Shambhala may have been its own essence of beauty, blues and greens and gilded temples scattered among at least three-hundred acres of land, but this is… _real._ While she enjoyed the aura of Shambhala, most of their expedition was a blur. It seemed too good to be true, too fantasized, too otherworldly. Magical, almost, but not the fun kind. She felt like she had been drugged. Knocked over the head. Dreaming of the land without physically being there.

Here, it’s as though they’ve waltzed into a time machine and flown back centuries while staying in the present day. Overall, this is her type of trip, and a bewildered smile refuses to drop from her mouth as they follow Becky to the very edge of the roof.

Pair by pair, thud by thud, their boots hit the stone. Sasha holds onto Bayley’s elbow once the brunette is fully upright, granted another, small lecture being tossed in her direction. This time, Sasha stands there without ability to even smirk. Perhaps an effect of Libertalia’s enchantments. She lingers in place, mouth opening and closing as if she wants to apologize but also doesn’t know how to. Or what for.

After all, they both know she’s only doing it out of care, and, truly, Bayley isn’t the least bit irritated. No. Her heart actually flutters at the sentiment, and how comfortable the other woman has gotten with her no matter the knowledge of past individuals within Sasha’s life staining it with bad memories and projected attitude. At the beginning of this trip, her goal was to be their group’s single beacon of light ━ their hope, quite frankly, and their optimism ━ and, as far as Bayley is concerned, she’s accomplished it little by little. _Especially_ with Sasha. That means more than anything.

The mercenary begins to walk away with a shy look on her face, also visibly forcing herself to play it off and allow her eyes to focus on their surroundings, instead.

Their footsteps echo against the houses’ walls and the statue in the middle of the town square, crunching pebbles beneath the soles of their boots. The place is evidently vacant, even if its looks weren’t enough to tell them. Up until now, they’ve been clouded with the white noise of rushing water from rapids, streams, the ocean, or whatever else, but currently there’s not a drip of it in sight ━ nor is there the sound it comes with. The streets are completely silent, and the only rustling they hear is from wildlife in the distanced trees, or the shaking of leaves when a breeze rattles them. One would think the quietude would be unnerving, like something’s lying in wait to pop out and condemn their group. But it’s not. In actuality, they’re calm. They’re too enwrapped in the history they tread upon, drag their fingers against, or simply stand in the middle of.

In all honesty, the feeling of home strengthens with each step they take. They could legitimately build a home here. Their own paradise. Reinvent Libertalia’s purpose, in a way. Become the new-aged pirates that reclaimed the land that their ancestors built. The four of them, together.

Bayley smiles, spying the penny-sized, yellowish-orange flowers poking through the cracks between the large, stone slabs in already-collected bouquets. She bends down slowly, crouching with her knees bent. Her fingers preciously drag across the flowers’ petals, their furry stems and accompanied leaves. She feels the silkiness on the pad of her thumb while the grin on her face only grows, her motions deliberate and reveling in the overlooked amenity. Meanwhile, no one pays attention to her, leaving Bayley to exist in her own bubble of happiness directed at likely the simplest thing in the area. It’s always the little things, she thinks.

Her eyes float upward to where Sasha stands. The mercenary’s right hand rubs her mouth in awe mixed with deep thinking as she looks across the neighborhood and scopes out the rest of the area without intent to stray too far. Bayley then seals her lips, carefully plucking three flowers from the ground with quiet apology. They’re gingerly slid into her pocket for safe-keeping, wishing to hold just a little piece of vibrance to remind her that the smaller things in life are just as valuable. It’s a concept she’ll need to remember once they inevitably find Avery’s expensive bounty. She’s only human, but doesn’t wish to lose sight of the better riches.

Sasha inhales before relaxing her shoulders, mouthing an unheard “Okay” to herself. She’s about to turn and follow Becky into a nearby building when she’s startled to find Bayley standing a foot away. Looking down, there’s a single flower delicately pinched between three fingers. Sasha knows it’s an offer. A gesture of adoration and faint passion that they’ve hardly touched upon in their silent yet weighted glances, the tension that’s so-obviously building. Her throat tightens at the indication ━ the underlying symbolization ━ and her smile is diluted yet unrestrained, clearly swayed and quite honestly swooned by Bayley’s objective.

The mercenary shyly reaches for the bright flower and takes it between her fingers, just as gently, just as kind and soft. She wants Bayley to know that it’s a mutual feeling, though the extreme timidity of the action is so unlike her normal self that it surprises both of them. It’s new.

Throughout her life, she’s been stigmatized as someone ruthless, outspoken and crass, a little too direct sometimes and uncaring of beating around the bush. She’s been stigmatized as straight-to-the-point and often damaging. A result of being damaged, herself. But, with the golden-colored flower held between her fingers, with its innocence trusting her not to commit harm, she’s now understanding a type of compassion and tenderness that she’s never encountered before. A tiny laugh is exhaled through her nostrils while staring at its petals.

Her eyes lift, and her smile grows. She knows, for sure, that she’s also blushing.

“Thank you,” the whisper is smooth and quiet, and Bayley’s smile turns into a smirk.

So much for the frigid, do-or-die mercenary.

Internally, Sasha’s mind runs on a loop. She constantly thinks about bringing up their conversation from yesterday before the storm when her tongue spoke without direction, flat-out confessing that she doesn’t want Bayley to be uncomfortable with her. Although Bayley never heard the reason ━ although Sasha couldn’t find the strength to will herself into explaining ━ it still stands. She can tell that Bayley is still thinking about it, too, like when she doesn’t take a step away or end their current encounter by wandering into the closest building where Becky and Charlotte disappeared.

It’s apparent that Bayley isn’t uncomfortable, though, and that’s what primarily sticks in Sasha’s mind. Acknowledgement yet acceptance despite never receiving an answer as to why the purple-haired woman doesn’t want her feeling uneasy. There’s a pinpointed comfortability above anything. Bayley wouldn’t be this close if she was antsy being around a cold-hearted mercenary. A _killer,_ even. She’d be keeping her distance, roaming anywhere and everywhere _but_ in a close proximity to Sasha. Instead, her shining eyes are the least bit frightened, nor are they hesitant. Sasha could drown in them.

She could, but Bayley ends up sealing her lips and nodding her head to the right.

“You won’t do any good watching their backs from this far away,” her voice is airy and teasing, and Sasha nods in agreement with raised eyebrows.

“Good point.”

A leftover glance is given to the flower now resting in her palm, careful not to squish it. Simultaneously, she makes desperate attempts to tuck away the euphoric sensation that remains fluttering through her chest like a crystal butterfly threatening to shatter at any given second. An eye-roll follows, judging the pessimism that slams against her heart like a rock-hard fist on a wooden door. Like the other shoe is waiting to drop. Like feeling happy isn’t a _good_ thing.

Then again, she knows that it gives her more to lose, in the end.

_“It’s new to you, isn’t it? Feeling.”_

Her jaw shifts at Becky’s words as Bayley walks ahead without peering over her shoulder, leaving Sasha to close her eyes and take a round of three, deep breaths.

 _“It’s not_ new, _I just choose to not do it often.”_

She lied. Becky was right: Sasha isn’t used to it. Not since she felt that sympathy for Charlotte, and felt the fire ignite within her to save the blonde from a grim fate. A fate that should’ve come by Sasha’s hand. That’s the last time she’d done it ━ the last time she’d _felt_ ━ both because she continued on her path of being a semi-successful mercenary, but also because she wasn’t a fan of that empathy. That misplaced compassion. It hurt more than any abuse she’d ever suffered, even if it came with its advantages. Its own padding. The warmth, the smiles, the gratitude. Having someone looking out for her despite that being _her_ job. It was nerve-wracking, needing to coddle someone’s faith in her when she’s not sure it should be there, in the first place.

After that instance, she stopped. She ignored it all. She didn’t want to feel. She still doesn’t, if she’s being honest, but she can’t help it with Bayley. Something tells her it won’t get any easier, either. On the other hand, part of her is okay with that. _Terrified,_ but okay. Maybe it _is_ a good thing. Just maybe.

Pausing, she thinks about where to put the flower, not wanting to squish it or ruin it within a pocket, nor the holster on her belt. With a nod directed at herself, she reaches into her shirt and slides it into the top of her bra, also snickering at the concept of placing it close to her heart. How poetic, she muses, but forcibly ignores it once the flower is secure.

While approaching the building that her teammates sauntered into, she notices the squared, wooden pillars on the outside, how thin they are and simple in a way that reinforces their idea of this being more so residential and homey. Less “big-name pirate,” for example. Her eyes squint, stepping onto the single, wooden deck and passing through saloon-like doors until she sees Becky standing behind a broad counter, tin mug in hand.

“Would ya care for a pint?” the redhead beams, and Sasha snickers.

“I could use one right about now.”

She lays her left hand on the bar while observing the quaint establishment that’s undoubtedly the town’s pub. Dusty, wooden signs are pegged to the back wall with cheap tables and stools tipped onto their sides, all scattered around the floor. There are two windows: one on the west wall, the other on the east side. Both windows’ shutters are lopsided and ready to break from the frame, wide open and allowing sunlight into the space as its warmth gets stuck inside. Within the air, speckles of dirt float around, moving past the streams of light until they’re hidden in the shadows again.

Overall, it’s just like she’d imagine an olden-aged pub, predominantly wooden and creaky, also ready to give out at any moment. Something you’d see in a movie, except authentic and tangible. A little too tangible, she thinks as she retracts her hand from the bar.

At the back of the room, three previously unnoticed rocking chairs rest a foot from the southern wall, all intact and vacant until Bayley happily sits in one. On contact, she tilts her head back, slouches, and groans.

“I feel like we haven’t taken a rest in years,” her eyes close, and Sasha smiles at her blissful state.

“It hasn’t even been a day,” Becky retorts without looking over her shoulder, chuckling while putting the tin mug beneath the counter where she’d found it.

“Still feels like longer.”

Charlotte lingers at the easternmost side of the room, watching where she steps over a fallen chair and around a cracked, square table that’s in a mirrored position. Her eyes study the floor, body language reserved and compact with her arms tightly against her sides. At the same time, her fingers wring together against her midsection, fumbling back and forth. She can feel Becky’s gaze against her temple, the redhead side-eyeing her without being too obvious. So the hunter thinks, at least. Charlotte ignores it, dragging her tongue along her lips in thought as she bows her head, ultimately finding her attention zoning in on an old, bronze-colored book lying an inch from her boot.

She tilts her head to the side and crouches to get closer, fingertips gingerly stroking its spine as it lies face down on the dusty wood, and she can feel the grooves of its stretched leather. There’s nothing on its cover aside from ornate designs, not a shiny gold color but that of a muddy taupe, and it makes her eyes light up in the same way they always do when coming into contact with history.

Without a doubt, someone in a past life held the book between wrinkled hands, cradled it and flipped through its pages with diligence. Someone sat here, at this table, and read its contents with intention of learning something new, or relearning something old ━ no matter what lies on the paper. A little piece of treasure amongst the likes of Libertalia, famous for its sparkling, coin-riddled wealth. To Charlotte, it’s bigger than any of that, though. It’s deeper, and has far more stories to tell. The idea of knowledge and “lesser” pieces of history are constantly overlooked all because everyone flocks to the most obvious thing in the room. The most prominent decoration, or objective. All because of greed, and ignorance.

Knowledge is the diamond in the rough, but she’s more than happy to be the one who caters to those neglected items.

Charlotte carefully slips her right hand beneath the split-open pages while grasping its spine, picking it up and straightening her back. Once it’s flipped over, words upon handwritten words stare her in the face, the blonde not taking the time to read the inscriptions but mainly to soak in the feeling of holding that little piece of history. Her fingertips drag along the lines, feeling the curve of where the quill pressed against the page, where the ink occasionally globbed beneath its point until the bubbles were left behind. They glide along the subtle shine of the paper until moving to the edge, flipping to the next page and doing the same. Another smile curves her mouth, eyes delicate but focused on the obvious age, causing her to wonder the events during which this book was written. Clearly, it took a lot of time.

“You can take it if you’d like.”

She doesn’t notice how close Becky’s gotten, standing right beside her now with a tilted head. When the historian’s mouth opens without actually saying anything, she continues.

“I have room in my bag to carry it. If you don’t in yours,” there’s a hopefulness to her voice when she slips the backpack from her shoulder, like she’s pleading with the universe to make the gesture come off as sweet.

Charlotte picks up on it, sealing her lips before staring at the now-closed book in her hands.

“I don’t enjoy taking other people’s property,” she looks at Becky, and the redhead gives her a slanted yet convincing smile.

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but this place hasn’t been active for hundreds of years. I’m sure the skeletons won’t mind.”

The joke receives a small chuckle, but not much. Not when their hearts are still stinging. Sure, the ache lessens with each, passing moment, but it’s not like any of their problems have been solved. Still, Charlotte looks at her with a conflicted expression, yearning to give in and slide the book into Becky’s bag, but unfortunately having a difficult time processing it. Honestly, she’s not exactly sure why she’s so wary in regards to taking it, especially because the Irish woman is right: this place hasn’t been active in however-long. But, at the same time, she supposes that her mind believes this is a resting place, of sorts. Not a cemetery, but an area that shouldn’t be treated like a tourist attraction, or a gift shop. Even if she’s admittedly enjoying the new ambiance, not to mention getting acquainted with the tales embedded in these walls… they’re still trespassing on old territory. They’re pirates to pirated land.

At her unshakable silence, Becky nods, then lowers her voice.

“You don’t need to take it if you won’t have a clear conscience about it, but I can tell you want to,” there’s a pause before she flashes her a tiny grin, shrugging. “It’s in your eyes.”

The insightful statement has the opposite effect of her intentions. Charlotte swallows hard and ducks her head, practically hiding her eyes and their revelations away from Becky whose face falls flat and heart tumbles with it. Then, she knows she should leave the historian alone, so she does.

Becky walks away, mentally kicking herself repeatedly. She wishes she could apologize, maybe not for their conversation just now, but for everything. Her common trend: wishing to make amends but never finding accomplishment in it. She also wishes she could convey her feelings without them being unnoticed or undetected. Without them being searched for a hidden agenda, more so. God, just this morning, she thought they were getting somewhere together, but now it’s back to square one. It’s always back to square one.

Her concentration on self-loathing is broken by an odd feeling against her back, the straps of her bag shifting where they lie. She peers over her shoulder to see Charlotte keeping her lips sealed without making eye contact with the redhead, as though she’s trying to sneak the book into her bag without causing a scene. Without being asked a question about it. Without Becky being smug about it.

She can tell that’s why Charlotte didn’t mention it, or admit she’d like to take it. Turning back around, Becky complies and allows the historian to secure the book in her bag. However, facing forward, she can’t help but look at the ground and smile heavily at Charlotte’s reluctance yet eventual acceptance. Becky makes a mental note of books being the way to the blonde’s heart. She’ll remember it.

Once she’s finished, Charlotte takes three steps away and crosses her arms, like the action of listening to Becky took the heat from her limbs and turned the room chilly. Again, Becky doesn’t mention it. She doesn’t have time to, anyway.

“Alright, let’s move,” Sasha declares with a deepened voice, stepping out of the pub before anyone can say a word.

“Hold on, hold on,” Becky all but squeaks while rushing forward. “I’m the captain of this crew!” it’s a joke that contains a bit of seriousness, and the mercenary turns around with a smirk.

“Aw, am I stealing your thunder?”

“Yes, thanks for asking,” she goes wide-eyed, shifting her boots on the cobblestone for a better, more dramatic stance. “It’s very impolite.”

Bayley snickers as they venture further into the neighborhood.

“May I remind you that you stole _mine_ back there?” Sasha extends the banter, referring to Becky’s over-eager advancing on the battlefield.

“ _Me?_ Stealing a _‘known’_ mercenary’s thunder?” the redhead provokes. “Hm.”

It ends with Sasha making a playfully irritated face at the reminder of their first conversation back in Springfield, Becky smugly humming to herself when she knows she’s won that round.

They follow the road slowly in a pack, all observing the passing houses and establishments. The next building was formerly a stable, heavy saddles hung upon the wall on wrought-iron hooks with empty horse stalls. They don’t venture inside, but Becky holds tightly onto her mental sketching of everything, head turning this way and that with the rest of them in sync.

Charlotte walks behind the others, although not far. From where she follows, she’s able to watch their interactions, how they operate with one another and interact. The bottom line: how their interactions have become so much lighter than they were yesterday. Being stuck on a vacant island with no other civilians will do that to you, she guesses. But, even so, she can feel a weight lifting from her shoulders and chest. The anxiety lessens, and the paranoia. The anger, the irritation, the sadness. It’s replaced with a bittersweet sorrow, a longing to enjoy the events as they unfold without holding so much against Becky or even herself for _wishing_ to enjoy it. The self-sabotage, above anything.

It’s just so damn back and forth that she’s losing sight of what’s up and what’s down, but maybe she should trust her instincts. Not her pessimism, and not her desperation to find something wrong within their sea of optimism. She really _has_ been searching for the worst in Becky, her actions and reactions. She’s been waiting for that single moment that reaffirms her belief that the Irish woman is nothing but a no-good liar. A selfish treasure hunter. And, back in that first gunfight, she latched onto that presumed affirmation when her heart pounded in her ears. It was a moment of weakness, and Charlotte ━ no pun intended ━ jumped the gun. She judged Becky too soon, even if she has a valid case of why she’d be hurt by such actions. Now that the atmosphere is at least thirty times lighter, she can see, think, and hear clearly. The adrenaline has crashed, and she’s left apologetic for her outburst. Embarrassed, even.

It’s about time she stops acting on impulse, running away from the first sign of trouble, allowing her past to dictate her decisions.

It’s about time she stops relying on her past to be an excuse solely because she knows how much it’s damaged her. In the end, it’s also taught her a thing or two about holding onto the important things in life. The important people, like those who walk in front of her. Even Bayley ━ someone she hasn’t known for long in any sense. They’ve all become important to her, and she’s tired of outcasting herself. She’s tired of turning her cheek away from the good things because of the false idea that the bad always outweighs them. The bad only outweighs the good when you let it mount. When you let it pile and infect you.

_“Even the least important places and memories are still worth revisiting. Especially if they dictate your decisions.”_

Her own words to the redhead haunt her. Last but not least, it’s about time she listened to her own advice. Her own wisdom and thoughtfulness. To practice what she’s been preaching.

The steps in front of her grow thin until they’re stopping, her three teammates having their chins tilted upward at the building in front of them. There’s a pillory stationed on the porch of it, an upright, horizontal slab with a large hole in the center, a smaller hole on each side of it. There’s a cut that divides it in half, iron hinges on the left side with the contraption’s top part loosened and fragile yet still put together. Had she never studied history, she’d still know what it’s used for. It’s obvious, but also dreadful.

A door is stationed behind it, large keys on a hung-up ring the diameter of a paint can’s lid. Their eyes peer through the doorway, all examining the vertical, iron bars of a cell.

“Don’t you think it’s a little hypocritical for a pirate utopia to have a jail?”

Bayley’s inquisition makes them snicker, her head tilted to the side with eyes squinted in severe thought. Sasha, in particular, turns to her with a narrowed gaze but an amused grin, and Bayley watches her out of her peripherals, then shrugs.

“D’ah, but every group has its assholes,” Becky responds with a cheekiness, still looking at the building with her hands on her hips.

She’s about to step onto its wooden porch when she’s stopped by Charlotte humming pointedly, and her head slowly turns to the historian.

“What was that?” she raises her eyebrows at Charlotte, a mix of bafflement, entertainment, and pure surprise being displayed.

It’s a serious change from the woman’s shaky demeanor that took place in the pub just minutes ago, now being good-natured yet also mischievous. The abrupt shift makes Becky blink in a stunned manner until she can focus again. In the meantime, Charlotte smirks with her eyebrows raised, a silent “You heard me” challenging Becky who then shifts her jaw and chuckles through a slightly opened mouth.

The switch is also detected by Bayley and Sasha, the glassy tension now heading into a playful area instead of cutting them all with no remorse. Truly, they’re still aware of the carried irritation and problems they’ll have to face sooner or later, but this is certainly preferred over silence or flat-out anger. Becky, especially, thinks so, and she’ll willingly take the jabs one by one if she has to. Anything to make Charlotte more comfortable. Anything to make her enjoy herself, at least a little.

Becky dismisses it with a hum, though the moment has passed, anyway. The others are turned in the opposite direction once another cluster of red birds fly overhead, their attention grasped by their colors against the blue sky. The treasure hunter creeps onto the porch as they’re facing away, shuffling cheekily over to the pillory and saying, “Hey, look,” while putting herself into the item.

The top board rests over her neck and keeps her in place, Becky trying her best to look around while feeling the dirt against her skin when it falls off the material. Charlotte can’t stifle the chuckle that exits her throat at the sight. It even morphs into a full laugh once Sasha teases, “Let’s see if the lock still works.”

The statement gets Becky to all but stumble backwards out of it, pointing a finger at Sasha and warning, “Lock me in there, and you don’t get paid, Pinky.”

“It _might_ just be worth it.”

Charlotte laughs again, and, this time, Becky’s forehead creases with her mouth dropped open entirely.

“See, how come my troubles get a laugh outta her but my actual jokes do not?” she asks Sasha, and the historian crosses her arms with her tongue pressed to her inner cheek.

“No one likes a try-hard,” the blonde retorts, and Becky mocks her stance.

“I’ll try less, then.”

“Like that’s possible,” she scoffs. “You love to show off.”

“And you love seeing me show off,” it’s given with a deep smirk, completely halting the other woman’s statements despite the smile not dropping from her face.

“Guys, what do you think’s in that big building?”

Bayley’s voice diverts their attention, the three women formerly unnoticing their fourth member wandering over to a nearby, black fence with diamond-shaped tips and otherwise skinny poles connected by two, horizontal bars. She stands there, staring beyond a settling of trees and second neighborhood area only divided by a ten-foot drop, like a second level. In the far distance is a massive building within a calm fog, its walls a smoothened grey with greenish tops. Becky guesses that they’re made of copper, which is different from anything they’ve seen so far. Additionally, the building is larger than any other they’ve come into contact with. Judging from a distance, it’s the size of a massive cathedral, or perhaps a small, modern-day baseball stadium. A castle, truly, with rounded tops. Three, domed towers. Immediately, one particular cylinder stands out among the others.

“With the giant guard tower?” Sasha asks flatly but also with intrigue ━ like she’s realizing that they’re close to discovery. “I have a few good guesses.”

Becky’s smirk from before remains, but her shoulders droop with amazement at the view, then at the idea of what they may find. She nods her head at the sight without moving from the same spot, ultimately taking a suspenseful breath.

“Well, let’s see what it was guarding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love progress, don't you? 
> 
> Clearly, we've begun the whole "back and forth" typa thing. Charlotte is finding her footing (rightfully so), and she's going to own up to a few things. Becky still has to gather her own thoughts, in the meantime. She's a little tougher to crack, but we've hardly scratched the surface of her character. You'll see.
> 
> Baysha continues to provide the good content, though! They'll keep at it. Gettin' us through the hard Charlynch times.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first part of Libertalia. The next chapter will be kind of... a transitional chapter, in a way. It'll have some progress, as always, but it's a bridge to the next major chapter.
> 
> I'll see you back for it, I hope! :')


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we jump into the chapter, just wanted to thank everyone for the super positive response to Libertalia and Baysha's cuteness and Charlynch's (minimal, but still solid) progress. Made me smile a bunch, especially because I've been really going hard on these chapters lately. I want to do the best I can for y'all. Both you and Uncharted deserve the best. 
> 
> Which is another reason why I'm posting today. I need a little pick-me-up with some nice comments, or at least another kudos or two. Anything. Or just the self-delivered accomplishment, maybe. But, yeah. Please and thank you! 
> 
> Anyway, I've kept you long enough...

MON., 1:17 P.M.

* * *

“Watch where you walk,” she says without turning back. “Looks like the houses are gettin’ a wee bit more brittle around here.”

“A ‘wee bit’?” Sasha scoffs, scanning the ruins.

“Yes, a wee bit,” Becky rolls her eyes.

Their surroundings creak with the gentle breeze that wafts through the rooms, the wooden boards sounding like they’ll give out at any second. Even the stonework is chipping onto the ground, dried like generic clay from a craft store. Clearly, the Libertalia pirate patent didn’t stretch to the houses on its outskirts. In fact, they’ve noticed the decline in quality as they exited the first row of buildings, wove through two, adjacent alleyways, and ducked beneath a pair of fallen beams. The beauty still exists ━ still reminds them of where they are, and who walked upon these streets before them ━ however it’s become cluttered, less postcard-esque and further rubbled to the point of them needing to mind their steps more than ever.

Nonetheless, in spite of their growing timidity, they’ve still paid attention to every major and minor detail of Libertalia. What it has to offer, both big and small. Like the flowers that became less found toward the southern end of the neighborhood, the buildings that became less noticeable in regards to their purpose, the compact cemetery that appeared to be a resident’s backyard. They’ve taken it all in, piece by piece to complete an overall puzzle in their minds. It’s a place they won’t soon be forgetting. Not just Becky, but also Bayley, and Charlotte, and Sasha. They’ve all found something important here, something to hold onto and cherish with sticky fingertips and a metaphorical sweetness on their tongues. Bayley’s flowers, Charlotte’s book, and Sasha’s adoration. Okay, so they’re not all tangible, but just as worth it. Just as valued and necessary.

Becky’s acquired something, too, and it’s not her sought-out, coveted discovery of Libertalia. From the time they were in the pub, to when they stood outside the jailhouse, while they ate their “lunch” in the form of granola bars, even up until now, she’s been able to share glances with Charlotte without feeling like she’s being choked. Without feeling like it’s unwanted, or borderline loathed. This time, the blonde has reciprocated those subtle looks, sometimes even with a diluted grin that proves how she’s trying her best not to get too sucked into Becky, but also how she’s failing miserably.

One time, in particular, sticks within the hunter’s mind, even through her attempts of refocusing on where she’s walking ━ especially when she nearly collides with a diagonally fallen beam. She avoids it. Her mind still harps on the memory, however. The memory of their foursome entering a house two buildings back. Their boots crunched along pebbles, occasional bigger rocks from a crumbled stone wall, and Becky walked directly next to Charlotte. The historian couldn’t stop her amazement when they collectively looked up to see a bell tower built straight into the air, half of its wall in ruins with its horizontal supports exposed, yet still sturdy above. The bell was as gold as ever, polished to a T, like it hadn’t been exposed to any weather, or age, or wildlife. Like it could ring perfectly with just a simple knock against its rim. Becky could tell that its beauty caught the blonde’s attention, simply admiring Charlotte’s profile and how her eyes sparkled with intent. Her intent to keep the picture in mind, that is, or imagine what the bell was like, back in the day. What it was used for, when they’d ring it, and why they constructed it, in the first place. Everything about it. It’s always her intent to uncover knowledge. Charlotte is a library in her own right.

The Irish woman smiled big at Charlotte as they journeyed, wishing to say something cheeky just loud enough to get the woman’s attention. She also didn’t want to break her focus, on the other hand. She’d waited so long to see this type of captivation again, this unspoken yet unbridled enthusiasm, and it’s not something she wishes to dismantle anytime soon. So, she kept quiet and silently observed Charlotte’s own observation, but the heat of Becky’s gaze must’ve been too much to not feel against her neck. The blonde lowered her eyes away from the bell and sealed her lips without turning back to the redhead, but, when she inevitably did, she caught the hunter’s affection. She couldn’t wipe her blush away for a solid ten seconds, meaning she had to play it off by giving Becky a sillier smile matched by rolling eyes as if to ask, “What do you want?”

Becky giggled, more in a forced victory as if she’d won whatever little game they were playing, ultimately trapping the tip of her tongue between her teeth while keeping a tiny smirk on her face. Again, Charlotte tried ignoring it. That time, Becky let her.

But she still hasn’t forgotten it, and it’s caused a certain fluttering to break out within her chest for the remainder of their walk. Even now, as they see a bookcase leaning in front of a secret, cut-out hole in a house’s lower wall, she can’t force the thought away. The blatant happiness she’s felt, even if it seems so misplaced. Even if it seems so random, after the argument they had quite recently. She tries to fend off the optimism as much as she can. She tries not getting herself too comfortable in that bed of softness, those beautiful, ocean eyes that Charlotte has bestowed upon her. It never ends well. Still, can she really help it?

Becky breathes out, her three teammates stalled behind her as she crouches down to peek into the room hidden by the bookcase. She cranes her neck a bit, eyes looking left, then right, gripping the bookcase’s side with curled fingers.

“What is it?” Bayley is first to ask, frowning slightly.

“Not sure,” she answers while straightening her back, then turns to them. “Wanna find out?”

“Is that a serious question?” Sasha bats her eyelashes in a faux innocence, also smiling.

The redhead snickers.

“Careful of your head,” Becky says as she begins to crawl, and her statement is only solidified, comically ironic when the other women hear an obvious, hard thump. _“Yup,_ knew it,” her voice is pained, from her throat.

Charlotte covers her mouth to stop herself from laughing, needing to turn away with sealed-tight lips as Becky disappears on the other side. Sasha shakes her head while Bayley giggles without bothering to quiet herself, and an echoing “Fuck, that hurt” comes from the adjacent room.

Sasha goes next, quickly sliding herself along the dirt floor until she’s smugly standing next to the Irish woman who rubs her forehead. A severe frown is on her face as she checks her fingers with a morphing pout. The mercenary continues to smile mockingly.

“So…” she drawls, “how’s your head?”

Bayley laughs at Becky’s immediate and sharp “Shut up” as she makes her way under the bookcase, followed by the historian before they’re standing in a group. At first glance, the room looks like a large cellar. Dry yet cold, dusty, a dirt ground with rocks here and there, and a musky scent fills the air. No windows, no doors, just darkness and two tunnels at the far end. They can’t see a thing aside from what the scarce streams of light poking through the ceiling boards allow, but, even then, it’s not much.

The mercenary hums flatly. She shrugs her backpack from her shoulder and reaches into it, taking out the two black flashlights that she’d snatched from the fallen soldiers. One is handed to Becky, the treasure hunter giving her a hasty, uppity “Oh, thanks” before turning it on with a click and illuminating a fraction of the space. Sasha does the same, the beams of light going this way and that.

With the newfound light comes confusion, and also a shade of suspicion. In front of them are multiple tables, tin mugs and bowls upon their surfaces, then chairs surrounding each. On the left side of the room are feather-filled beds, some looking nicer than others, but at least ten of them pressed against the lone, wooden wall in a line. Altogether, it looks like an olden-day bomb shelter, or a hide-out of some kind. Just enough to keep someone alive if they were to be stuck in the room ━ at least until their food ran out ━ and nothing too fancy. Decor-wise, there are unframed pictures stuck to the western wall, scattered among the stone in no particular pattern. Some are crooked, whereas others are straightened and clustered, overlapping, like whoever made the ensemble ran out of room on their first paper and needed to bleed their sketches onto another, then another, and another. All of the posters are torn, wrinkled and subjected to moisture throughout the years, and Becky can’t make them out from where they linger by the entrance.

With a creased forehead, she approaches the western wall and those papers, soon standing in front of what she now deciphers as an assortment of maps. There’s one chart, in particular, that stands out amongst the rest, acting like a focal point as it’s larger in size and centered above a desk pushed against the wall. At first, she can’t decode its meaning or implication, even when squinting her eyes in deep thought. It’s straightforward, admittedly, having various, red arrows all curved and all pointed at the center building: a massive block with what appears to be three towers.

A.K.A. the tower they saw just minutes ago. A.K.A. the tower to which they’re heading.

Even so, what does it mean? Is it a simple walking route? Is it a horse-and-carriage cargo route? Something isn’t adding up, and her jaw shifts while brown eyes lower to the table below the map. Upon its surface is a layer of papers stacked and disorderly, scribbled upon with charcoal and torn. One is even burnt. She makes out another, similar map, however this one is smaller but with more markings. A personal map, she supposes; something hand-held and easily hidden. Easily edited, as well. Compared to the larger-scale graph, these arrows are extended, all leading to the same spot but snaking through various alleyways and buildings. Like they were testing to find the best route to the larger building, and scribbling out their not-so-solid options as they went.

She frowns further at the scribblings’ frantic nature, the obvious trial-and-error method upon the paper. If it was a simple walking route, why would the arrows go this way and that? And why would it matter? If it was a cargo route, why would they head beneath a building, and why would they start from this hide-out? And why is all of this hidden behind a bookcase with a cut-open hole in the wall? It’s obvious that the entrance was man-made instead of due to erosion. Why the secrets? Why the unanswered questions?

Becky’s tongue presses to her inner cheek as she lays the handheld chart back onto the desk.

“What the hell were they planning?” she whispers to herself.

“Hey, Becky,” Charlotte’s voice is heard, and she turns to see the historian staring at the eastern, wooden wall with her arms crossed loosely. “What’s this sigil?”

She slowly crosses the room, Charlotte meanwhile explaining, “I’ve never seen it before,” with a quiet, puzzled tone.

As the “sigil” comes into view when the historian slides a step to her right, Becky examines the menacing skull with an _“x”_ substituting the average crossbones. She examines its crooked, sharpened teeth and hollow eyes, the off-putting personality that accompanies it. Quite frankly, it’s like a shitty version of Avery’s sigil, a dramatic knock-off, except the skull is facing forward instead of to the right, and there’s an unintelligible marking on its forehead. From initial look, they could tell that it was carved with a knife or a sharpened blade, and the act seems rather violent with its shape pointed at the tips of the _“x”_ and the skull’s forehead symbol being an unknown yet prominent addition. There are still carvings on the floor, too, pressed into the bottom crack of the wall. As if it was done right before the place was abandoned, or before the carvings were able to be wisped away with movement.

“I’ve never seen it, either,” Becky admits, sounding mildly dreadful. “I’m not even sure it _is_ a sigil.”

“Rebel marking?” Charlotte turns to the Irish woman.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them went a little rogue,” Sasha comments from behind the two, now paying attention to the carving, as well.

“Guess that answers my jail question,” Bayley adds.

The hunter stares at it for seconds longer. Its lopsided eyes, its vicious teeth, that odd symbol on its forehead. She stares at its randomness, its unknown meaning, the dark aura it radiates from the wood it’s drawn into.

Her hands ball into fists. Fear of the unknown has always been something that’s gotten to her ━ that’s grabbed her by the throat and throttled her insides ━ and this is no different. It’s just too foreign, too odd, with little information on it. With _no_ information on it. And, by all means, it’s just a picture. Hell, it could be something these pirates felt like doodling onto the wall. But if she’s learned anything throughout her years of chasing Avery’s trail and his pirate friends, it’s that they normally don’t do things for _ha-ha_ ’s, and there’s likely a purpose ━ a _meaning_ ━ for this.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll find out,” the treasure hunter practically speaks to it with the decision as she backs away from the wall.

The others’ footsteps follow her once they’ve gotten a good look at it, not long before they’re standing behind Becky who peers down both sides of the tunnel with no hunch on where to go next. With a tiny shrug, she opts to take a left, rubbing the back of her neck in the process.

The stretch of tunnel isn’t long. In fact, there’s only twenty steps between the edge of the cellar-like room and the end, and there they find an old, wooden ladder going up into a hole in the ceiling. There are chips in its rungs, some even bent with wear, and the sides feel loose once Becky grasps onto it in a test to see how sturdy it is. She wiggles it slightly, hearing the creaking sound, but it’s ultimately safe enough to climb. Quickly, at least.  

“Here,” Becky gives a vague gesture up the ladder. “Careful, it’s rickety,” she begins to climb it, dust falling from the rungs when her boots disturb the wood.

“What _isn’t?”_ Sasha debates from the base of it.

“Ah, the amenities of an abandoned, pirate island,” Becky sighs airily, and Bayley begins to climb next. “Makes you miss home.”

“You too?” Charlotte snickers, quirking an eyebrow and seeing the redhead make a face from where she stands on the upper level.

“Contrary to your belief, Your Majesty, I _do_ enjoy relaxing and watching movies, lying in bed, and eatin’ my bodyweight in food.”

“The more you know,” she smirks at the woman who squints her eyes in challenge.

“Oh, get a room,” Sasha rolls her eyes as she pushes past Charlotte to join the other two above, and the historian scoffs at her remark while Bayley chuckles.

Becky ignores it, focusing her attention on where the ladder has placed them and where they’ll be walking once Charlotte makes it up. She squints through multiple streams of sunlight peeking through the roof, raising her hand above her eyes to create a makeshift awning. About twenty feet ahead of them ━ through another hallway ━ is a statue, being the only thing in the room. Similar to the carving on the wall in the downstairs’ hide-out, it’s oddly placed, especially considering that it’s stone in a room constructed of wood.

Her eyebrows knit together, and she turns back to look past the ladder. There’s no way they’re getting through that side of the hallway, being in complete ruins with boards and dirt pouring into the space. Collapsed entirely, with no way to move anything and crawl beneath. Their only path is forward to the statue, and she frowns.

The proceeding steps are cautious. Mindful and frankly nervous. With each passing inch, the wood creaks beneath her boots, and she hesitates little by little. Her heart beats in her ears, feeling the planks’ depth and noting how they’re much thinner than anything else they’ve walked upon. On sight, they’re actually bending with her movements and a stretching sound is heard. It causes her mouth to fall open with breaths tumbling out. There’s a sudden need to warn the others, to let them know that this shouldn’t be taken lightly, but her words are caught in her throat with a soreness appearing. Something tells Becky that they already know, anyway. She can feel their wide-eyed gazes upon her back, and it makes her sweat more. Despite that, she treads gently, only by the tips of her toes as if it’ll give the boards less pressure to break under. As if it’ll cushion her weight.

Thankfully, with every foot she’s closer to the statute, her stress diminishes. The wood stops sagging beneath her feet, eventually fully solid again, and she exhales.

With carefulness, her teammates mimic her precise steps until they’re all in one piece at the end of the hallway. All gathered around the statue and what they interestingly discover hiding behind it: a well in the floor with a beam above it. Again, out of place, but this time it works to their advantage. Hopefully, that is.

The Irish woman cranes her neck to look down into the well, leaning over its stone sides with her fingers dragging along the clay-like remnants from when they carved it. Her red hair hangs down into the space, her features growing cool from the air filtering through the well like a vertical tunnel. A moisture also clouds through, being able to taste it onto her tongue once her lips part. She puffs out her cheeks when she sees no end. No bottom, no pit, no water, no nothing. Just light and fog.

“I see some light down below.”

The information is given while she’s already pulling out her grapple. They watch her tie it to the overhead beam, pulling on it and checking to see if it’s secure.

“And… nothing else?”

“Nope,” it’s straightforward, Becky staring at them individually, “but that’s better than being stuck in here, isn’t it?”

Sasha raises her eyebrows in agreement, but no one else reacts or says anything. No one interferes, either, when Becky props herself onto the well’s rim and stands there, nearly falling with her arms outspread as Charlotte’s eyes go wide then return to normal. The redhead snickers at herself, her unbalanced posture as a result of her ribs delivering a sharp pain once she used her arm strength for something so minimal. She grabs ahold of the rope dangling into the well, taking a deep breath while peering straight downward.

During the resounding silence, her fingers twitch against the rope. Flexing them once, twice, three times. They curl tighter around its fibers, a sort of desperation mixed with trust in the object, and her arms flex. They tighten, then release, and tighten again as she drops one leg into the well, followed by the other. Finally, she kicks off the side so she’s hovering above the light down below. The lack of bottom, lack of pit, lack of water, lack of anything. The light and fog.

Her grip releases a tiny bit, repelling ten inches lower as she lifts her chin to look at the others. She’s faced with expressions of anxiousness, sealed lips and attentive eyes. It’s too much to stomach right now, so she seals her lips and repels further into the hole. Within seconds, the fog consumes her, and not even a shadow is seen by the women above. It heightens their anxiety, even more so once they hear a shaky, surprised “Holy shit.”

But it’s better than nothing. Better than a thud, or a scream. They feel a wash of relief.

“What?” Sasha yells down, voice rattling between the walls until it tapers off.

“There’s no ground,” Becky replies honestly, albeit chuckling nervously. “I _did_ find more of the colony, though. We’ve got to swing to it. Like, _swing_ swing,” she puts emphasis on it, and they all frown in confusion.

“What’s the difference between swing and _swing_ swing?” the mercenary speaks with her hands, though Becky can’t see.

“Erm...” she doesn’t have a direct answer, and can’t explain what she’s seeing, “you tell me.”

The lack of genuine response doesn’t make them feel any more at ease. If anything, it confuses them further and drums up a second layer of anxiety. They know that they’ll only have one shot at whatever-it-is, judging by Becky’s words. They know there’s usually little to no room for error, anyway, but this seems… _extra._ It’s unnerving.

Sasha looks at Charlotte who shakes her head slightly, mutually dumbfounded and lost on what Becky means. Next to them, Bayley makes a _“yikes”_ face. Openly, they’re all dreading the possibilities and theories that sink into their imagination, yet the brunette is the only one to voice it. All while bowing her head against the well’s rim, quietly muttering to herself.

“Now, I’m _really_ missing home.”

Sasha feels a pang of sympathy for the least-acclimated member of their group ━ the least “adapted” to this life ━ but also wishes to keep her mind on track. She bumps Bayley’s shoulder, poking fun while teasing, “Says the stunt performer.”

It successfully earns a caught off-guard laugh, defensive yet playful, but Bayley manages to offer a valid rebuttal.

 _“Hello,_ I’m pretty sure there’s no giant trampoline or blow-up landing pad sitting on the ground down there,” it’s pointed, and she tilts her head to the side.

“Sometimes you have to take risks.”

“Oh, get a room,” Charlotte drawls, the mercenary shooting her daggers that leave her to smirk triumphantly. “Tit for tat.”

By now, the Irish woman is already securely touching the ground somewhere. Five seconds ago, out of their peripherals, they saw the way the rope moved before they heard a thud in the distance, followed by an echoing, relieved “Phew.”

Through anxiety, deliberation, and determination, the three other women follow, and individually learn what Becky meant by _“swing_ swing.” Because, once they emerge from the fog, they realize they’re hanging above thousands of feet of open air, and the only piece of ground is a cliff approximately forty yards away. With a wide arc, and with gratitude that their ropes are long enough, they’re able to make it with ease. But, like with any risk, it’s accompanied by the knowledge that anything less than a perfect angle would leave them dropping to their death. Anything less would leave them dropping through those thousands of feet of open air. Dropping all the way to the cold, rocky ground that’s covered in a mirage of greens.

Pushing away the terror, and as far as views go, it’s beautiful. Immaculate, more like. The island’s major cliff is in plain view, its snapping-turtle mouth looking prominent ━ _intimidating_ ━ as ever, and its ring of fog is thicker than it’s appeared in recent hours. In the distance, to their right, is the ocean full of blues and greens, sparkling from the sun with canine-like rocks and more trees obstructing their view of the yellow shore.

If they weren’t hung so high in the air, they’d love to bask in the view for hours on end. For days, weeks, months, years. Any amount of time. It’s central to everything on the island. Greens, blues, the birds’ reds. Simply gorgeous and breathtaking. Even on the cliff where they’ll be standing, there’s tall grass and occasional trees, followed by more houses. These ones are far more broken, almost in shambles completely run into the cliffside, and some of their pieces have already fallen all the way to the ground below. There, terracotta reds and grey stones lie on a bed of trees, whole walls with cut-out windows resting flat against the soft shrubbery. Again, breathtaking. Even in a wistful light. Their beauty has fallen tremendously, but not halted. _Never_ halted. It’s all something to remember, certainly.

Aside from the fallen rubble, the upstanding houses on the cliff are also backed by further-away cliffs and larger buildings, including the three-towered structure they’re attempting to reach. Though they’re not fully viewable from where they hang beneath the well’s mouth, it’s another thing they’re eager to get acquainted with. A destination, and a goal. A reason to make the jump.

One by one, they take in the view. Even Sasha who afterwards closes her eyes multiple times before she’s able to gather enough strength to swing. Enough strength to focus and ignore the scenery that comes with a massive distance to the ground, that is.

In order: Bayley’s turn comes after Becky’s at the request of Sasha, wanting to make sure the beam above keeps sturdy while the brunette completes the task. She knows that, below, Becky will do the same and watch Bayley land without trouble, and she does; the driver’s leg nearly gives out once her knees are bent from the impact, but she manages to stand and only limp with a step or two. Thankfully, that’s the gist of it, and Becky alerts them of Bayley’s success.

After a brief conversation between Sasha and Charlotte ━ a disagreement on who will go last ━ the historian complies and follows Bayley. Her swing is easy, though she can’t help her hesitation once she zones in on everything around her. Becky smiles from where she stands, but eventually jokes, “You’re not going to hang there all day, are ya?” to get Charlotte’s attention. The blonde shakes her head, then joins the pair of women.

Lastly, it’s the mercenary’s turn. She takes her time psyching herself up with her hands gripping the rope, sucking in and pushing out three, deep breaths before repelling down through the well until she’s begrudgingly staring overwhelming height straight in the eye. Until she’s trying to stomach it without deterrence, and harshly failing. Her eyes slam shut with a twisted grimace, gripping the rope tighter. Below her, there’s absolutely nothing. She can hardly see the trees straight down because of the fog. She can hardly see _anything,_ aside from what’s in the distance. And maybe that’s for the best, she thinks. Sasha swallows hard, then succeeds in her swing to the cliff before hunching over to catch her breath.

“Take a minute, then we’ll head…” Becky squints, looking up at the sun, noting their surroundings, and using the cliff’s current location as a reference. “East, I think.”

“You think?” Bayley questions.

“Excuse me, you get a little disoriented when completing a jump like that,” Becky sasses. “And when you travel through a mythological city. _And_ when you crash into an island during a storm.”

Charlotte snickers at her antics, shaking her head and walking in the opposite direction so she can wipe the expression away by delving into the scenery again.

“Besides, either way, we’re heading in that direction,” the redhead finishes, pouting slightly, and Bayley laughs.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Thank you,” she sounds thrilled at the nickname, and Sasha groans at her dramatics while straightening her back to stand upright.

A remaining breath escapes her throat before she swallows hard through the soreness stinging her insides. She tries to keep herself from looking over the edge of the cliff ━ from shifting her boots within the tall grass so she can stare beyond the distance ━ but she can’t. It gets the best of her, and, for a moment, Sasha’s able to revel in the sights clouding their judgment. The beauty of the midday air, the everlasting breeze, the colors, the birds, the trees, the small waves shifting the ocean in a rhythm. For a moment, she feels okay. She feels safe atop the cliff. Invincible, in a way.

But it only lasts so long before her body feels like it’s breaking limb by limb, and a sudden numbness grabs her wrists, climbs her arms, clutches her neck, and she feels dizzy. She has to hunch over again, and Bayley notices.

“Hey,” she crouches down next to the mercenary, Becky and Charlotte seeing but not mentioning it.

No need to put Sasha on the spot, they think.

The brunette puts a delicate hand on Sasha’s back, flat against the fabric of her shirt.

“Is it the drop?” she asks simplistically, and the woman’s mouth hangs open as she stares at the ground.

Her head shakes at the question, forcing an ironclad facade that hides her insecurities. It’s proven once she stands upright again, cracking her back in the process as Bayley’s hand drops down to her side. Standing there, she pretends she’s okay, and Bayley frowns heavily.

“I’ve just never… done that,” it’s not the full truth, but it’s enough. “So, I guess, maybe it’s the drop.”

A breathy chuckle comes from the brunette. It’s not genuine, but it’s not angry. Sasha can’t tell what the other woman is feeling, come to think of it. She watches Bayley, studying the driver’s movements and how her eyes squint while peering out into the distance. But, after three seconds of apparent thought, Bayley hums, then turns to her. The mercenary stiffens when Bayley leans closer, toward her ear, and intently whispers with a knowingness that’s both comforting and intriguing.

“You’re a bad liar.”

Sasha’s mouth opens and closes. She seems to be doing that often in response to Bayley, and something tells her that the brunette has noticed. A half-smirk, half-grin appears on her mouth, a shade of sadness strewn within. Clearly, the concept of Sasha lying to her isn’t a favorite, but part of Bayley understands. Hell, she’s even surprised that Sasha was so sweet with her back in central Libertalia. It’s been a good surprise, definitely, but a surprise, nonetheless.

It’s not that she expected the mercenary to turn her down, to continue being cold and passive about everything, but, at the same time, the entire world was shown within receptive eyes ━ a gaze that actually _appeared_ hopeful, pleading with Bayley not to turn away ━ and that’s something she didn’t think she’d see. These past three days have been a whirlwind, both in a general sense and in regards to how they’re warming up to each other, but she’d be lying if she said she isn’t thrilled about where it may lead them. From the beginning, Bayley knew she was almost wholly opposite in contrast to Sasha. Who she is, where she came from, how she carries herself. She knew they were _mirror_ opposites. But, in some light, maybe they’re similar. Perhaps they’ve both been looking for another piece to their personal puzzles. Something to keep them held together in an aspect they weren’t aware had a section missing.

Bayley sighs and bows her head for a split second, then tilts her chin upward to stare at Sasha again. The mercenary still looks at a loss for words, but it’s alright. She’ll find those words, someday.

“Just don’t look down, alright?” a teasing smirk comes with the same tone Sasha gave her after the first gunfight, and it makes the mercenary trap her tongue between her teeth at both her heart’s reaction and the brunette’s uncanny memory.

“Oh, but I _want_ to,” she manages to reply, a tinge of heat in her words. “I need to get used to it, don’t I?” her eyes drift lower before re-locking with Bayley’s.

The other woman hums, then giggles, and the two walk off to follow Becky and Charlotte into the scattered houses of Libertalia’s fallen half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a little bit shorter than usual, but that's because it was supposed to be combined with Ch. 20 which, as it's written, ended up becoming 11.5K on its own. So, I was like, "Mmm... better split them." We still had some cute things covered here (God, who would I be to deprive you of Baysha and at least a smidgen of Charlynch?), but yeah, I know it was a bit short.
> 
> With that said, as aforementioned, next chapter is a hefty one. In various uses of the term "hefty." Let's just say... grab a snack when you sit down to read it. Also, it *may* come sooner than usual since it was supposed to be part of this chapter (as in, we pick up only minutes after this update ended), but don't quote me on that. I want to get it out to you ASAP, so we'll see. Which brings me to my next note: I'll be taking a break after I post Ch. 22. Yes, again, I'm sorry, I know. BUT, hear me out. This little section of chapters that we've been working on (from 17 to 22) was somewhat like a bridge, and I'll be breaking because (without spoiling anything) it gets intense detail-wise and story-wise. So, it'll give me time to get the details to a T. Won't be long, anyway! I'm already working on 23. 
> 
> Either way, we're moving into an area that's going to get very intense storyline-wise (as I've said), and then we'll finally (in a way) flip from Baysha-focused to Charlynch-focused. It wasn't my intent when I first started to make the first half of the story more so centralized around Baysha's development, but that's what ended up happening. No one's complaining, I assume. I've had fun. I won't push them off to the side (man, I'd never!), but, at the same time, we're shifting into an area where you'll see more Charlynch. As in... much more dialogue, much more feeling, much more everything. I swear on it. Prepare yourself. 
> 
> Hope to see you again!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there was ever a time to get a snack, it's now. You're welcome.

MON., 2:21 P.M.

* * *

“Shhh, _”_ Sasha holds up her closed fist as Becky is crouched next to her, the four huddled in a patch of tall, vibrant grass.

Roughly fifteen feet in front of them are two soldiers dressed in heavy, tactical gear, both facing outwards toward the remaining buildings. The buildings where the group will have to travel through to reach their destination of the three-towered structure. Also, the buildings where more soldiers pace back and forth. Becky grits her teeth, studying the handful of automatic weapons a good amount of the man are armed with. The handguns they all holster aren’t too comforting, either. From where they squat in the grass, they can make out at least ten soldiers, all bulky and stubble-faced with their eyes peeled.

The operative phrase being “at least.” Technically, the women can’t see past the smaller house that obstructs their view, being perched on the next cliff. On the bright side, that means they’re still hidden, and the only immediate roadblock is the pair of men feet away.

So far, they haven’t been spotted at all. Not by the ten soldiers dotted through buildings ahead, and not by the two right in front of them. Up until now, their path has been free of artillery. Free of combat and extreme danger.

For the past twenty minutes, they’ve jumped from house to house, scaling the walls of fallen buildings and running across beams. They’ve heard the crumbling of stones, the creaking of chipped boards, wads of dirt and dust trickling to the ground. They’ve heard the age of Libertalia’s outskirts, and taken in its matched beauty. That wonderful backdrop still surrounds them. That real-life green-screen, so immaculate and breathtaking that they stay struggling to believe it’s real.

But, even with that beauty, they’re aware of the tricky clutches they’re running upon. It’s a dangerous game, like playing with wildfire until it begins to consume everything in its path. The only path they’re able to take. Their venture through the edge of Libertalia has been nothing short of a gamble, and no less painstaking when it comes to watching where they’re placing their feet, hands, or overall body weight. How they swing, how they climb, where they hold, where they push off of. It’s been the epitome of risky, and it’s called for some spirit-lifting between the foursome.

With each crack and crumble, with each menacing sound that makes their hearts stop, they’ve comforted each other with simple conversation. Encouraged each other, too, and built up their confidence against the weathering storm of knowing how they’re climbing on landmarks that could give out at any second. They’ve acted as crutches for each other, and like cushions to that overwhelming anxiousness that nips at their throats. They’ve become a real team.

As for Bayley, her prime focus of discussion has been with Sasha, easing the mercenary through the fallen structures and heights as much as possible. Quite frankly, she knows the woman isn’t letting them in on her mindset enough. She knows that Sasha is stowing away a great deal of her feelings regarding the cliffs they’re on, and the distance to the ground. The gaps they have to cross, and the walls they have to scale. Bayley can tell that Sasha’s fear of spiders is nothing compared to this. So it seems, at least. It’s just an assumption, of course. But who _wouldn’t_ assume such when the mercenary is practically dropping her eyes from her head each time she gets a minute glimpse of the cliff’s edge and where it disappears to? When her throat bobs, her eyes unblinking, and her hands balling into fists. So, maybe it’s not just an assumption. Bayley _knows_ this fear is worse.

Nevertheless, even with the mercenary’s growing apprehension, they’ve successfully accomplished everything they’ve faced so far with minimal moments of fear. Minimal breaking in the wood, minimal destruction aside from chips here and there. The only issue they’ve discovered so far is that Becky has needed to put in twice the work. With her grapple left behind at the well, she’s needed to find alternative routes to reach her team on the other side of various cliffs. In two instances, she’s had to actually hang her body from one cliffside, then kick off and jump three feet to the grab some hand-holds on the other. The whole time, Charlotte bit her thumb and tightened her arms against her sides, but she’s trusted in Becky’s ability. In the end, that trust paid off.

But it seems Becky’s hardships in regards to her lack of grapple have come to an end. Because, in front of them, a blessing in disguise catches her eye in the form of a metallic flicker. Tucked into one of the soldier’s belt is a high-tech rope and hook, ready to be picked off. She breathes out.

“Grapple,” she mutters to Sasha.

“Got it.”

 _“Come in,”_ a radio sounds against the left man’s hip, and he pulls it from the clip on his belt.

“General,” he addresses whoever’s on the other end ━ a woman, voice accented and a level deep, also brash and the sound of someone who doesn’t like to play games.

_“Anything?”_

“None spotted.”

_“Keep your eyes peeled. They’ll be coming this way. I’m almost there.”_

Her nostrils flare at the roughness of the voice on the other end for an assortment of reasons. First and foremost being that they’ve been expected, stalked and waited for. Despite having a handful of their fellow soldiers decimated hours ago, they won’t give up. Maybe it’s incentive for revenge, Becky thinks. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. Or maybe this mindset of “If we’re going down, you’re coming with us” was their plan all along. After all, Avery’s treasure is a hefty bounty, and it’s not unheard of for armies to stop at nothing when the thirst of wealth drives them forward.

Unfortunately, no matter what, Becky can’t prove them wrong and avoid the foreseen trouble. They have to go this way if they want to reach that large building. There’s no alternative route. The cliffs are too rubbly, the lining trees are too tangled, and she’s not even positive there’s more ground to tread on the other side of that vegetation. It could be a straight drop to the ground where more houses of Libertalia lie against greenery, or it could be simply nothing. Just dirt, or rock, or rubble. Nothing to cushion them if they were to fall. Nothing to save their lives at all. Taking their chances against these men seems to be their best bet, even if it’s not a good one.

She clenches her jaw and bows her head so no one can see her dismay, so no one can catch her wavering focus. So no one can ask about it, above anything. A deep breath exits her nose without being heard, overrun by the soldier’s device cutting out with an abrupt static. It’s clipped back into place on his belt, and Becky lifts her chin.

“What about the radio?” Bayley whispers behind them.

“Too low of a frequency,” Sasha doesn’t look back. “Wouldn’t reach anywhere near the mainland. They purposely bring them for short distances, especially secret-ops militias like these.”

Bayley sighs, not questioning it or debating. Sasha’s answer was straight to the point and informative, like a fun-fact pamphlet without the fun or lightheartedness of it. Like she’s familiar with these things. Realistically, it’s a crude reminder that she _is_ familiar with these things. Perhaps, this time, it’s a blessing in disguise. Because of her keen sense in this field, Bayley knows she’s right. And, frankly, that’s a major upside to Sasha’s profession, even if occasionally the brunette frowns at it. Even if she occasionally wonders which dream Sasha would’ve opted to chase if she hadn’t been built for this ruthless life. No matter what, she supports her, and she’ll continue to listen. If there’s anything she can provide to their tasks aside from optimism, it’s her will to support and listen. She can tell it means a lot to Sasha, too.

She watches the mercenary adjust her position, head ducked like she’s stalking her prey.

Sasha’s eyes squint. She picks her spot and plans her next move, tactically so. Inches away, brushing her shoulder, Becky mimics her demeanor. Her tongue drags across her lower lip, and she raises her arm slightly to vaguely point at the two men. Leaning closer to Sasha, she begins to plan aloud with a firm decisiveness.

“So, what I’m thinking is you get right, and I get… the… left…”

Becky’s instruction comes to a slowing halt as Sasha rushes forward out of the grass and instantly puts the man with a grapple into a chokehold. A scuffling sound catches his partner’s attention, the second man angrily turning to see the mercenary with her forearm pressed against his partner’s throat. Before he has the chance to properly react and reach for his holster, a boot is shoved into his midsection and he’s kicked straight off the cliff with a bellowed shout that fades into the distance. Meanwhile, the other soldier struggles with grunts and attempts to elbow his way out of Sasha’s grasp, the mercenary’s face contorting with her nose scrunching up as she reaches for his grapple. It’s pulled from his belt with a metallic slip, then tossed nearby with a thunk as it hits the ground feet in front of a wide-eyed Becky. With ease, the man is then shoved off the cliff in a swift motion, his screams of terror more stifled than his partner’s as he falls to the ground.

They don’t hear the thud or crunch of the two soldiers hitting the blanket of vegetation, not due to the height from the cliff to the tree line but more so their attention being zoned in on how Sasha doesn’t seem to have broken a sweat in the process. A form of showing off, Becky understands.

Once Sasha turns back around, she’s being assessed by her still-crouched team, and she freezes. Becky just stares, Bayley raises her eyebrows in mild, good impression, and Charlotte is a mix of the two. Everyone is collectively silent. Even the birds have stalled their chirping, momentarily. The breeze hinders, as well.

Although partially unsettling, their joint disbelief warrants a prideful, half-assed grin from Sasha as she leans down to gather the rope and hook. The instrument is gingerly tossed to Becky who manages to catch it against her shoulder with frantic, _“think fast”_ reflexes despite nearly dropping it twice before she has full handle of it. Her forehead is still creased, though, almost confused. Consistently dumbfounded by what just transpired.

“Save your energy,” Sasha answers their forming questions, like why she didn’t want help. “Many more where those came from.”

“Uh, yeah,” Becky blinks hard, standing up within the brush. “Let’s go. Carefully.”

It takes five steps before they’re at the edge of the cliff, staring across open air. Unlike previous cases, Sasha manages to keep herself from looking down, saving herself from giving into that mood-kill when her adrenaline is starting to simmer in a way that keeps her motivated. This time, she simply studies the house-like structure atop the cliff where they’re heading, examining its quirks and figuring out their next move.

“See that beam jutting out of the top floor’s window?” the treasure hunter points, constructing a plan before Sasha does. “Latch onto it, swing, and pull yourself up using the cliff’s edge. We’ll take shelter in the house while we gather our intel on the other soldiers.”

“Good,” the mercenary nods. “I’ll go first to clear the path if there’s any hiding. Otherwise, I’ll give you a signal to come over.”

“Alright,” Becky backs off, standing next to Bayley whose throat bobs when the nervousness catches up to her.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. In fact, Becky can practically feel Bayley’s anxieties growing and screaming from where she lingers, and so can Charlotte. Unlike the blonde, Becky actually acknowledges them, and chooses to reassure Bayley, even if her words don’t mean as much as actions do.

“She’s good at this, lass,” it’s spoken without Becky turning to her. “Trust that.”

Bayley can tell who the statement is directed at. Honestly, she knows how shaken she appears, and doesn’t even care to hide it. Even if she did, she can’t help it. Her mind flickers back to Sasha’s recently mounting hesitation due to their distance from the ground, her shaking fingertips when climbing, loosening grip when swinging. None of it makes for good company when they’re this high up, this subjected to falling to their death. One misstep and it’s goodbye. One wave of fear and Sasha could look down, let go, and tumble.

To know they’re willingly allowing Sasha to take this leap on her own, across a massive rift of nothing but air and fog beneath them… it’s nothing short of anxiety-inducing for Bayley. As far as she’s concerned, even if it’s just for a second or two, they’re letting Sasha’s unadmitted fear hold her tight in its clutches. They’re trading her away solely for their own benefit. It’s selfish, even if Sasha wants to do it.

Nevertheless, Bayley nods partly, but it’s so slow and minimal that Becky doesn’t catch it. From her peripherals, the brunette’s chin only raises. She’s putting up a front. The Irish woman can’t blame her, though, and keeps to herself.

A deep breath is heard in front of them, the grapple secured onto the beam across the way. With a ringing in her ears, Sasha psyches herself up to the task before she stiffens her shoulders, grips the rope’s fibers, and pushes herself off the cliff’s edge. The motion rolls through like it’s nothing, and the mercenary is pulling her body up onto the new platform within the next, five seconds. There, she crouches immediately and sneaks into a hole blown into the lower part of the house, and, after a blink of obstruction, they see her hiding behind a railing. She peaks around the corner, then the other, all while keeping her body covered by whatever structure she can find. A pause follows, but they’re soon given a thumbs up.

The navigator smiles, but it drops once Becky says, “Bayley, you’re up.”

“Why me?”

Becky looks at her with mild, pointed amusement.

“Because I know if anyone goes relatively near you, Pinky will chew their head off.”

“And you’ll do the same if anyone goes near Charlotte?” Bayley fires back without missing a beat, and the redhead’s mouth drops open.

She doesn’t stick around to see Becky’s reaction. Instead, she passes both remaining teammates, and hops from the cliff to swing across the gorge. In the meantime, the treasure hunter feels eyes burning into the back of her neck. She can feel ocean eyes permeating her skin, making her want to scratch the area like it itches. Realistically, she pretends to not feel them. She closes her eyes at the sensation, and seals her lips. Pushing away the distraction, when she refocuses, Bayley gives them a thumbs up to match Sasha’s from prior. The brunette then gets settled next to her partner, the mercenary mouthing, “Nice jump,” to the other woman.

“Your turn,” Becky still doesn’t look at Charlotte, but she doesn’t have to.

The historian walks by her with a knowing hum and a tiny smirk, earning an eye-roll from Becky who wants to pretend she’s above when Bayley said. Yes, it’s the honest truth, and Becky would admit it, but, at the same time, she’s not about to give Charlotte ammunition to hold above her head. Then again, maybe it’s just a game that they play. Maybe it’s fun. This back-and-forth, this challenge of seeing who gets the upper hand until, finally, they just implode. Not in something regretful, but in a way that mimics how they almost did, years ago. How they almost fell together that one night. How Becky almost kissed her and almost didn’t stop.

Admittedly, it _is_ fun. Especially when Becky gets to see the smirks, the smiles, the grins, the joking reactions that the blonde gives her. It’s nice for a change, almost like they’re back on their first venture. Not just that lone night where everything intensified, but even the days where they shared childish, random banter and were able to laugh with nothing ailing them. It’s nostalgic, in a way. She’s missed it.

Once her swing concludes, Charlotte joins Sasha and Bayley against the railing, and Becky soaks in the image of how graceful the historian appeared while moving from this cliff to the next. How in-her-element she appeared, and how the motion came with ease. How it came fluidly, like a second nature. Even if this life isn’t for Charlotte, she sure as hell does a great job accomplishing tasks like she’s a true treasure hunter.

But she can’t think about it too much right now. Not when she’s separated from her friends who are all ready to make it past those men up ahead. Not when they’re ready to insert themselves into what’ll undoubtedly be an intense gunfight. Right now, she owes them to get there and have their backs. All things considered, with Bayley and Charlotte not wishing to get their hands dirty for their valid reasons, she’ll pretend to be a second mercenary for the extent of this trip. She’ll push her shaking hands aside and take part, get the job done with Sasha by her side, and they’ll move forward. There’s no need to subject Bayley and Charlotte to tedious, abhorrent actions like taking the life of someone else. Even if the historian has done it in prior cases, it’s not like she’s willingly put herself into those exact scenarios. Nor has Bayley.

She breathes out.

Her arm swings the rope with its hook on the end, valiantly tossing it and locking the metal piece around the beam across the rift. Without overthinking it, she jumps, then pulls herself up with pursed lips and grunts escaping her throat. Her arms flex, her dirty hands showing their veins tightly, all while feeling bruised on the inside as a result of the work she’s been doing mixed with last night’s sleeplessness. Her ribs feel like they’re on fire from being tossed into the sharp rocks yesterday, as well. She’d forgotten before now, but, being stretched out and practically dangling by only her arms keeping her held up, she can feel her torso pulling her ribs apart. Like she’s wearing a corset to extend her frame into an hourglass. Like her bones are being snapped off and torn to shreds, rib by rib. She winces, whining slightly, but grits her teeth to continue.

Fifteen seconds later and her boots are on solid ground. Becky can exhale heavily, breath after breath, much like her teammates who are relieved to see that they’ve managed to keep undetected.

With a small round of frustration at her aching body, Becky frees herself of the red filter over her eyes by yanking her hook from the beam like usual. Watery eyes appear but diminish quickly, her dusty hands securing the instrument to her belt when a sudden and menacing, sliding sound is heard. Wood against wood.

The Irish woman looks up with fear, watching the beam slide from the upper window, right over her head. She runs into the house where the others are, quickly scramming under the doorway so she can avoid it falling onto the cliff where she stood. The thud is massive, and it tears off the corner of the rocky platform as the piece of stone topples to the ground. They all cringe, ducking their heads and squinting their eyes with toothy faces being made. Then, the beam entirely slides from the cliff, scraping the side of the rock with partial creaking until its weight shifts and it falls down to the trees below.

They all stare at the scene, but Sasha breaks their team-oriented trance.

“Your clumsiness is going to get us caught,” she whisper-hisses at Becky whose mouth hangs open. “Is she always like this?” she randomly turns to Charlotte who, after a brief pause, tilts her head back and forth in an iffy answer.

The mercenary doesn’t wait for a response, already preparing her gun by reloading and cocking it. Going through her normal motions as Bayley watches. Nearby, Becky frowns at the question and dismissal of her presence, wishing to squeak out, “I’m right here!” But she can’t. Not when Bayley is peering over the railing, shuddering, and easing herself back down to the floor with a dreadful notification.

“I think it _already_ got us caught.”

Her voice is muted by their focus shifting to the deep yells of men, boots dropping from higher levels onto lower platforms of various houses through hardened thumps. Sasha sighs, and Becky gets out an annoyed “Christ” while pulling her handgun from its holster. This is what she gets for having a moment of attitude, even if directed at herself. She should’ve known. The universe hates her, after all.

The weapon chills her fingertips, not from its metallic texture but from the carnage it brings. From its meaning, from what it’s used for. Her loss of humanity, loss of morals. She can pretend, all day long, that it’s simply a precaution, but she knows better than that. She’s seen it in action, fired by the bent tip of her finger on multiple occasions. And she chooses to do it, each time. She always makes the same choice, even if convinced that it’s the only way. Which, right now, some may argue that it sincerely _is_ the only way. There has to be _some_ form of defense, right? This is that defense.

Becky bites the tip of her tongue between her teeth and ignores the burning sensation against her palm. The firearm’s rounds are checked and rechecked, Becky going through the same motions that the mercenary had, mere seconds ago. An irritated face is made rather absentmindedly, along with the click that comes from her tongue against her teeth, but the gun is readied and cocked with a sharp clack. She shakes her head at the lacking number of rounds she has left. Not her brightest move to pass up the former opportunity of grabbing a new weapon or rounds as Sasha searched the fallen bodies earlier. Sadly, it’s too late now. These few rounds will have to hold her. She’ll have to make them last. Make every shot count, that is. Her lips purse.

“What’s our play here?” Becky whispers to Sasha.

“Well,” she rearranges her position to peek over the railing, “it looks like we’re already made, so stealth isn’t necessarily on our side. I’d rather take them head-on, wouldn't you? Hold down the frontlines, push forward, and clear out while these two stay here?”

Bayley and Charlotte share a mirrored reaction, an absolute wariness about the plan, but don’t interrupt.

“Works good for me,” she nods and tightens her jaw, giving one last glance to the pair of women behind them. “Stay put. We’ve got it covered,” the gun is adjusted in her hand, and the historian watches her fingers grip its handle desperately. “We’ll get you when it’s over.”

Delicate and semi-pleading, ocean eyes stare at her for an extended moment, her tongue itching to protest. All the while, her body yearns to lunge forward and grasp onto the treasure hunter without a will to let go. She wants to keep her held captive, held back against the inevitable strain of gunfire, hoping to keep Becky’s mind from becoming mutilated by yet another round of depiction that no one should have to see even once.

But, against her better judgment, Charlotte nods. She understands what has to be done, and she’s giving Becky the green light to do whatever she has to do. Without question, without consequence. Despite her acceptance, there remains an unspoken “Be safe” in the nod, and Becky’s following, diluted grin promises that she will. Realistically, the Irish woman’s thoughts push her to express what she sincerely wants to: how she wishes there was another way, how she wishes it didn’t have to come down to this. _Ever._ Especially leaving Charlotte alone, considering what happened hours ago. Moreover, she wishes to provide some sort of declaration that she’s not putting herself in harm’s way for the sole fun of it. The words are lost within her throat, though, and she doesn’t have the necessary time to force herself into being rawly genuine. Instead, she turns away, and the sentiment disintegrates until it rains into the pit of her stomach.

Bayley views the interaction without saying anything. Their body language, their obvious desire to say more than they’re letting on. Again, that immovable care. She gives it a sad half-grin with one corner of her mouth, but it falters once Sasha turns to her. Although, the newfound eye contact only brings about a stronger emotion. Not secondhand or from a third person’s perspective. She’s part of this interaction, and the person to whom Sasha’s smile is directed at. A smile that’s mirrored with ease, one that lacks a “Goodbye” and instead explains that she’ll be here waiting. That’s the extent of their eye-communicated conversation.

Becky and Sasha sneak around the building’s left corner without another word. They slink through the tall brush until they’re taking refuge behind a large, wooden and rectangular box left out in the sun. Its colors are muted, faded by the sun’s harsh rays over the course of time, and it smells like it’s close to bursting into flames. Becky is sure she even sees a charcoaled patch on the back of it. Overall, it’s not the best cover ━ what with there being wide gaps between each board, like a standard pallet found at any warehouse ━ but it’s better than trusting in the grass to keep them undetected. Aside from the multiple stacks of crates, skinny trees clutter the left side of the area, all providing sporadic shade to keep them sheltered within its natural disguise, and other, smaller stacks of wood cover parts of the grass. Again, nothing to provide them surefire coverage if the men were to jump them right at this very second, however just enough to hide them from the alerted militia up ahead.

Their assailants walk back and forth within the adjacent house and beyond it. They pace, converse, fiddle with their guns, and resemble pendulums that stir up one’s anxiety. Becky’s, at least. She breathes out.

In front of them and protruding out from the cliff’s lid of grass, five stone steps lead up to the building that’s still standing on three sides. Its fourth wall being wholly fallen off the cliff, and landed in the vegetation below. They presume it happened decades ago, judging by its appearance. Its corners are less chipped and more rounded by weather, also leaving the two women to believe the wall that fell was its weakest point. The structure’s weakest point, now crumbled to sea level so it can’t infect the building by spreading its tenderness. In its departure, the wall has left the strongest beams and stones in place, supporting the remaining frame and keeping sturdy. A good thing for them, they think. With those reinforced logs of wood in place, the building is less likely to collapse if they get too close, or when the gunfire inevitably erupts. If a grenade drops, however, that’s another story.

“What now?” Becky mutters without taking her eyes away from the men inside.

“Move forward.”

Two pairs of eyes are locked in on the second wave of crates, and Sasha licks her lips while proceeding. In the course of their advancement, Sasha first vacates Charlotte and Bayley’s line of sight, followed by Becky who uses every drop of strength to ignore turning back to their hidden partners. To ignore the nagging feeling in her chest that begs her to give them a tiny, perhaps childish wave. All in good fun, or maybe a strange delivery of comfort that, again, promises she’ll be back. Against the odds, she’ll always be back. In the end, she manages to ignore every fragment of her heart that whines about distancing herself from them, but a soreness still grows in her chest once she’s squatting next to Sasha behind the new crate ━ the new yet still-poorly constructed crate.

Within the previous house, the two hidden women loathe the unknown of where their partners are heading. Even if they know how professional they can be, there are no guarantees, and that’s the worst part. No matter what Becky tries to declare with her eyes ━ no matter what Sasha does, either ━ there are no promises. But they have to hold onto their hope. Their positive thinking. That dreaded optimism. Because, if they don’t, they’ll sink into the quicksand of panic, and anxiety, and black-colored pessimism that’s just as tangy as venom. Sooner or later, they’ll know their partners’ fate. Scratch that: sooner or later, they’ll know that they _survived._ Remember, there’s no other option. Charlotte seals her lips tightly and tilts her head back against the railing.

Becky sits with her back pressed to the crate while Sasha stares forward. There, they have a clear view of their perpetrators, and how they shrug and talk to one another like they’re at an office meeting. Like they’re not looking out for the four women so they can shoot them dead. Like it’s a casual encounter. Like they’re not merciless killers with pistols clipped to their belts, ready to be used and ready to encite bloodshed. Clearly, they either enjoy their job too much, or they’re not doing it well enough by dawdling and making light chitchat that Becky listens to with a severe frown on her face. She doesn’t even have to mimic Sasha’s position in peeking over the box to know they’re having too much fun. Her eyes roll.

“I’m glad we’re just a joke to them,” Becky muses, snickering to herself with her eyebrows briefly raising.

“Mm,” she hums. “Least we’ll be getting the last laugh.”

“I _do_ like the sound of that.”

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Sasha sits herself down, voice low. “We’re going to have to get in there and split up. It’s too small of a house to handle gunfire from both of us. It looks sturdy, but I don’t trust it.”

“Neither do I,” the redhead seals her lips, looking off into the distance before turning to the mercenary. “Just don’t stray too far.”

“I should be saying that to you,” it’s amused. “Almost gave me a heart attack last time.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” her tongue drags along the front of her teeth, fingers flexing around the handle of her gun before she gives Becky a pointed expression, “don’t do anything too extra this time around, ‘kay?”

“Sure thing, Boss,” a smirk comes with it, and Sasha squints. “People still call you that, right?”

She gives her a joking eye-roll, muttering, “I’ll never understand how Charlotte deals with you.”

Becky’s mouth tumbles open. Her features otherwise fall flat. There’s an assortment of responses formulating in her mind, all wishing to be heard. A few retorts about Bayley, others to defend herself saying she’s not _that_ bad, and a leftover remark of how Charlotte doesn’t necessarily deal with her, anyway. No matter what she was clawing to squeak out, Sasha wouldn’t be around to hear it. Because, before the mocking words even exited the woman’s mouth, she was on the move. She was bending her knees but moving slyly, sneaking up the steps on the toes of her boots before disappearing into the house.

Left alone, in spite of her bewildered reaction, Becky knows she has to shove away her debates against Sasha and get the job done. _Now._

“What the━” a man’s voice is cut by an individual shot before there’s a thud across wooden planks, the sound reverberating through the walls.

Gunfire peppers the air before Becky can merely blink. Just by its sound, she presumes that the men are shooting this way and that, hearing some gunpowder blow in the distance. Nowhere near Sasha, quite frankly. Fine, she thinks, let them waste their ammunition. Perhaps that’s a better tactic than heading straight for the warfare; simply draw their fire, hide, then repeat.

Becky shakes her head and a breath escapes her lips along with a self-directed “Okay.”

She clamors to her feet and stiffens her arms with the handgun still cold against her palms, posture locked in a determined attitude. Her finger quivers against the trigger, but it’s ready to be pulled at any interval. Just like always, in these cases. She takes the steps one by one at an average pace, only standing upon the third stair when she catches a soldier in the next doorway and sprays three, deliberate shots into his torso. Before he can even rip his focus away from Sasha and comprehend that she isn’t alone. That she has backup, and that they’re ready to fight. The knowledge makes her feel a shade powerful, but she pushes it away. There’s no room for cockiness on the battlefield.

In the eastern corner of the three-room house, Sasha holds her own. She fends off the men formerly hidden within the building, then rests the barrel of her gun on the windowsill to shoot outward. Becky watches her take cover periodically, meanwhile waiting for Sasha to clear the initial influx of assailants. Occasionally, the redhead pokes her head out from the building and retaliates once a pinging sound hits the stone wall she rests against. She hits a man or two, but only wounds them. No kill-shots yet. It’s disheartening, but, again, she shoves her inner musings into a box. She even shoves her simmering anger into its own box, Becky curling her palm around the weapon’s handle when her wrists won’t stop shaking.

A short pause creates a break in the action. The first wave of three soldiers are fallen, blood splattered along the ground like gallons of red acrylic paint has been thrown onto a brown and green canvas. At first, her breath gets caught in her throat, but she shakes off the disgusting wateriness that creeps into her throat. The decision to move quickly follows, Becky advancing forward like they’d planned. To split up so they can cover more ground. To end this with flying colors. With Sasha sniping their enemies before they can get to Becky, and Becky holding down the fort from up close.

Two, crusted stairs and a short jump lead her outside and into a second, open area shaded by trees. For five seconds, the Irish woman stands out in the open with her eyes darting around the space through caution and strive to see the assailants before they see her, but it’s cut short when a bullet whizzes past her ear and embeds itself in a tree’s bark. Brown eyes widen and she dives behind a wooden box, taking cover and slashing her arm in the process. She winces, holding the fresh wound, but it’s minor and hardly bleeding. At least it’s not a bullet hole.

Once she tears her attention away from the scrape, she studies the box. Her cover. The only thing separating her from their enemies. The only, frail obstacle keeping her from being maimed. “Frail” being the operative word, as it’s even more broken-down than the stack from minutes ago. Like it’s bound to crumble if she were to poke it with the tip of her pinky. Her teeth bear while checking her handgun again. She knows she can’t stay here. She knows she can’t put her full trust in the crate that’ll undoubtedly resemble Swiss cheese once those men realize where she’s hiding. By now, her chances of making it through this ordeal are looking bleak.

With that said, she mentally thanks Sasha who keeps the barrel of her gun pressed against the house’s windowsill, ultimately taking out the perpetrator who nearly shot Becky, seconds ago.

“They’re over here!” a burly shout echoes in another house, right before three men jump from a door frame that hovers slanted, two feet above the ground.

Their boots create a nerve-wracking thud once they land. She doesn’t even have time to wonder whether or not they know where she’s hidden. And, if she had, she would’ve had her answer within a single tick of the world’s clock. Immediately, they’re shooting in her direction with little to no effort, simply lying on the trigger without care. Her lips seal as bullets flick against the trees on both her left and right, finally pushing herself to twist her body where she kneels. Without looking, she lifts her gun over her head and returns one, two, three bullets with her fingers vibrating against the metal. She can tell she only got a single shot in, and, similar to before, it wasn’t a kill-shot. So much for making those bullets count.

It sounds like a warzone around her. Smog clouds the area, weaving in and out of the houses’ openings. Boxes shatter upon impact with one to three bullets at a time. Men yell in the distance. Their commands grow closer with each, passing minute, and Becky holds her breath. There are far more members of the invading army than originally approximated. Currently, ten is looking like the smallest number. Currently, she knows they’ve bitten off more than they can chew, and, currently, she’s regretting it.

Flashes of the gun’s sparkpowder light past the foggy area once she peers around the box’s right side. It’s as if time has fallen into slow motion, and there’s debris falling off each house like the sky is raining ashes. Upon the ground, fallen soldiers’ blood takes to gravity and slowly trickles down the cliffside. If that wasn’t enough, the gorey scene mixes with the dirt to create tainted mud. She swallows hard, then turns away.

Considering the thickening, dark smoke, she’s not even positive that Sasha can see her from where she is within the house. Even if the mercenary was to lift her head and fully look through the opened window, she’s not sure if there’s just too much thick air between them.

Still, Becky tries to focus on her own issues. Her own task of getting the job done for the sake of her team. For now, the bullets have stopped flying in her direction, and she can’t hear anyone ahead. She can’t make out their silhouettes, either. Unlike last time, however, she has nothing convincing her to stay put behind the makeshift shield. Likewise, she has nothing to keep safe. _No one_ to keep safe. Charlotte is perfectly fine, two houses away, with Bayley. Becky holds onto that comfort for dear life, repeatedly telling herself that they’re not being involved in the violence, that they’ll be waiting for her and Sasha to return with untainted mindsets and a readiness to carry on. And she _will_ return. She definitely will. For now, she has to keep pushing forward.

“Sasha, I’m moving up,” Becky yells, warning her.

It happens before she realizes that she also just informed their enemies of her whereabouts and her plans of travel. At the same time, all she wants to do is get this over with. So, truly, does it matter? They know she’s there. She knows they’re there. Quite frankly, she’s done wasting time hiding. She’s done being a sitting duck, pinned down behind a wooden crate that can hardly protect her, anyway. Furthermore, and most of all, she’s done being a coward.

Becky never gets a response. She supposes it’s due to the gunfire that wails against the wall of the house where Sasha keeps safe and snipes enemies who shuffle back and forth in the distance. Despite the guess, Becky rushes over to the edge of the cliff at the outside corner of the building, craning her neck to see what’s happening. Luckily ━ in some form of the word ━ confirmation comes that Sasha remains in a shoot-out with men from further away, the mercenary having a clear view of where the majority of them are stationed. Where they’re sneaking out of, like their numbers are infinite. Like they’re playing whack-a-mole when the assailants don’t stop popping up.

At the sight, her jaw shifts to the side, and a decision is made. She’ll help Sasha surround them. She’ll move forward, as planned, split further from her teammate, and she’ll help Sasha pin them down so they’ll have the upperhand. Once and for all.

Her adrenaline climbs, and her heart rate goes with it. A thin coat of sweat lines her features, and her red hair sticks across her forehead and somewhat along her cheekbones. Ignoring the tickling sensation against her skin and the heat of her limbs, she runs across the yard. There’s no way she’s willing to be caught up in the smoke with no idea of where she’s come from or where she can go. There’s no will to be caught up in unrestricted gunfire, more so. Or God forbid another grenade.

Determined eyes dry against the air’s smoky essence despite her intentionally heavy blinks, and her nostrils feel like they’re on fire whenever she inhales. There’s a gross scent intoxicating the perimeter, like burning plastic, and she wishes she’d someday get used to it. Just for the sake of being able to ignore it after endless encounters. She’d become impervious to it. Unmoved, uncaring, passive. Then again, it’s not something she finds solace in getting used to. It’s not something she wants to pretend to be oblivious to, even if it means being ignorant to it. Because, bottom line, that type of composure would mean she’s gotten used to the violence and everything it entails. It would mean she’s gotten used to the rare, red-colored scent. One that only comes with familiar bloodshed, one that makes her feel exposed. Vulnerable. It reminds her of the bad times. Past adventures. That godforsaken prison.

She shakes it off.

Pistol gripped harshly, her arms are stiffly locked as her back leans against a doorframe. Her chin tilts upward to suck in three more breaths, trying to calm herself. It doesn’t work, and her eyes slam shut.

A clacking noise causes her to refocus. The sound of boots rapidly passing the second threshold, toward Sasha’s house. An accompanying noise of their weapons hitting against their various, belt-secured equipment. All locked and loaded to fight fire with fire. Three, four, five perpetrators. Becky hopes the mercenary can take them all on her own. So far, Sasha has proven herself to be extremely professional and skilled, and the redhead has no doubt that she could drop them with ease. Hardly breaking a sweat, even. Especially due to her recent performance on the cliff, whether or not that dealt with automatic weapons.

In retrospect, even with awareness of Sasha’s talent, the price of caring for people around her is often worrying while she knows maybe it’s a ridiculous thing. It’s normal to care, right? To be scared, despite how dedicated or excelling in a field someone is. Because, yeah, she cares about Sasha. Just like she cares about Bayley, and of course Charlotte. Even when Sasha fights against her for whatever reason ━ even when they’re at each other’s throats ━ she still cares. This time is no different, but it’s yet another instance of having to tuck it into the back of her mind. Vulnerability will get you nowhere in these situations. Hell, it’ll even flat-out get you picked off.

Becky takes a breath and stretches her neck upward, wholly exposing her throat. A breath tunnels through it, then she swallows hard. She psyches herself up to clear the corner with her wielded gun, and her laced fingers twitch against its handle.

“Here goes nothing,” she murmurs to herself, then carries on.

 

 

A house back, Sasha skillfully defeats all faced threats. Headshot, by headshot, by headshot. A trait she’d acquired from her father, and her father’s father, and his father. Her prime skill. Something she’d picked up on right away. Something that’d impressed Lazarević, and quickly landed her a job with him. Sometimes, it’s a hobby, borderline a challenge to herself. To pick them off one by one with a single bullet per man. But, on the other hand, maybe she shouldn’t get so clever or precise with her trigger-finger. Maybe she should just get the job done, stop thirsting over the thrill of it, and move on.

What would Bayley think if she knew what went on in her head? The dark smirk she gets on her face, the taste for blood, the overall pleasure she gets in having such a sturdy hand that her aim is unmatched by the main percentage of people, even proficient veterans. What the hell would she think of that?

Five men turn the corner, flooding into the yard next to the window where she can see them take cover behind an assortment of wooden objects and piles. She bears her teeth and snipes one out once he stands up and wastes three bullets on her. There’s a heavy flick against the beam next to her, bullet lodging into it, and Sasha ducks when the wooden log wiggles and creaks. She shakily exhales when it doesn’t buckle, but hastily collects herself in order to drop the other men. Her head eases upward and she’s shot at by all four invaders in sync. Sasha groans in irritation once she falls back onto her butt and angrily elbows the wall behind her.

“Give up!” one yells, and she laughs.

Turning again, her head raises before ducking back down. Their shots are lured time and time again, right before Sasha sneaks out a handful of retaliatory rounds. Another man tumbles, screaming an irate “Fucking _bitch!”_ before a thud is heard. His brethren scramble to check his pulse while she traps her tongue between her teeth. He’s gone. There’s still three left, however, and her gun’s ammunition is running low. So is her belt’s spare rounds. Sasha tries to relax herself, also thinking about Becky and where she’s wandered to. She can’t wonder too hard about it, though. There’s more work to be done.

The mercenary grunts and rolls onto her knees, then peeks over the windowsill. They’re still hidden, but she’s prepared to pick off whoever is next to challenge her. She raises her gun’s barrel over the wall’s edge like prior, and that’s when one of the soldiers accepts that challenge. A grunt is heard on impact with a single fired bullet. A minute pressure is put on the trigger, readying herself for the following pull, but she’s interrupted. Suddenly, her shoulder is being bumped. Her heart leaps into her throat, and she swears she gasps. On contact and in one swift motion, she almost whips her gun around to raise it to the person’s head, but blonde hair is in her face before she can make a move or say a word.

“Charlotte?”

The historian’s eyes focus on their enemies. Jaw clenched, gaze targeting, and hand so-obviously getting reacquainted to the gun she fires. She hits two men, and Sasha’s focus drifts between Charlotte and the carnage as she proceeds to ask, “What are you doing here?” while working side by side.

“Helping you. You were taking a while,” it’s simple, to the point, as she squints one eye and takes her last shot, fiercely ignoring the partial kickback of the gun.

Sasha finishes off, piercing a final bullet into the remaining man as the force sends him backwards a foot and onto the ground. The sight isn’t something out of the ordinary, but it provides relief. There’s a settling quietness in the air, and they take a breath ━ only before Sasha makes a massive realization.

“Where’s Bayley?”

“I…” frowning, Charlotte turns and peeks around the corner, eyes searching the smog that seeps through the building.

She stands up and jogs over to the doorway, looking back to where they were. No disturbance is spotted. No Bayley, and no sounds. She rushes to the other doorway, finding the same amount of nothing in the attached yard. The same amount of cluelessness, and the same amount of dread. Bayley is nowhere to be found.

“She was right behind me,” her voice cracks without facing Sasha, ears ringing as her head whips this way and that.

“You _lost_ her? I left her with you for a reason!” it’s not angry as much as it’s hurt, scared and fractured, like her mind is already shooting straight for the inevitable.

Like it’s already establishing an answer it hasn’t been given yet. The sound breaks Charlotte’s heart. The expression on Sasha’s face is even worse. But it only reminds her of something else.

“Where’s Becky?” this time, Charlotte is the one to sound desperate, and the mercenary’s mouth opens with nothing coming out.

With no comfort to provide. With no response forming. No answer being given until they hear a single, isolated gunshot that echoes through all nearby houses, rattling them like a glass chandelier, and they both go wide-eyed.

 

 

Her finger pulls the trigger once, twice, a third time before it jams. Replaced by a clicking sound. Then another, and another. Continuing until realization sinks in, even after she’d tried ignoring it. Even after her eyes widened and looked at the weapon, raising it to her face and pressing the trigger again and again as if the outcome would shift.

And, judging by the toothy smile that stretches her enemy’s face like the Cheshire cat as he stands in front of her, she’s not the only one who realizes that she’s out of bullets. That she has nothing else left to fight with. Nothing reassuring, anyway. With that, the man sizes her up, standing a measly six feet away.

Approximately two minutes ago, she had shot his right bicep. On contact, his blood sprayed out and dripped consistently down his arm as it took to gravity. Unlike Becky had hoped, however, he didn’t melt into the pain. He didn’t even hesitate. His gun simply flew from his grip, he roared, and then seethed. Next, he rushed forward. At the same time, a mixture of the treasure hunter’s fear and her shaky grip provided him with an unassured cover. Becky’s bullets missed one after another, and her wrist vibrated to the point of thinking she’d drop the handgun onto her boots. At her hands’ refusal to stay still, she tightened her jaw to the point of her teeth nearly cracking under the weight, but nothing helped her gain makeshift courage.

She was left with a terrible aim that lead to the current scenario’s dilemma: no bullets. Nothing to fight back with aside from her own fists, _if_ that. Nothing to stop the soldier from strangling her, even if she’s weakened him by lodging a bullet in his upper arm. Nothing to stop him from ending her life ━ ending this “reckless goosechase” ━ even if his gun is slid across the grass and lying at the edge of the cliff. Her eyes dart to it, then away again.

He creeps closer, and Becky’s breath stalls. If she tries matching him in hand-to-hand combat, she’ll lose. She knows it. Throughout her years, she’s gained little to no knowledge of self defense, and she’s never been the best at coordination, in any sense. She also has little to no confidence that she’d be able to overpower him without a weapon of some sort, even if she had some tricks up her sleeve. In total, she’s never been able to get past her strong suit of simply dodging punches and kicks. And, honestly, where is that going to get her? Sure, it could buy her time, but…

Panic chills her blood, and it disrupts her vision. Her adrenaline settles at the pit of her stomach as fear lies on top of it, sparking like a fire. Her breathing is sporadic, confused and unknowing of what to do. Where to go from here. How to escape this. She looks at the weapon grasped in her palm, desperately shaking it as if it’ll clear up like a can of hairspray. She knows it won’t. God, she knows nothing’s going to work. At the same time, she’s at such a loss than any stupid decision may just be a good one. Any stupid decision may save her.

Her eyes dart to the gun behind him, then back at the perpetrator. He takes a step closer, and she adds to the distance by moving away in a straight line. A twig cracks under her boot, and her breathing is shallow. She knows, for certain, she looks as scared as she feels. As small, as childlike. Ready to cry.

“Whatcha gonna do now?” he taunts, menacingly approaching little by little. “No more ammo. No more friends…”

Becky frantically looks around the grass where she stands, fog lessening but still polluting the air. The treeline behind her is getting closer, and she’s running out of room. Her boots take her up the small slope of their roots, and she’s nearly stuck between him and the rough texture of vegetation.

Her tongue traces her inner lip in thought, eyes moving from the man, to the weapon behind him, to the gun in her hand. Again, and again. In a cycle until she’s zoned in on the metallic feeling against the pads of her dirt-covered fingers. Slowly, her focus raises to him and settles.

Without warning, her nose scrunches in force and she chucks the weapon at his face. A clink is heard against his mouth, a crack against his eye socket, and he screams while covering his face with one hand. All the while, Becky scrambles away. Running for her life, at top speed. His agony nearly provides the amount of time she needs to lunge against the dirt and reach his gun only ten feet away.

“Nearly” doesn’t count, though. She’s an arm’s length away when he tackles her and they slide to the very edge of the cliff. In her caught off-guard gasp, he turns her onto her back with a gruffy “Oh, no you don’t” through angry features and a clenched jaw. She’s pinned to the grass with struggling arms and a contorting face covered in her own, matted hair, and every scream she drums up gets caught in her throat. Only murmurs of “No, no, no” spill out, and, even then, they’re only mouthed. He wouldn’t listen, anyway.

“You are _dead!”_ she can feel his hot breath on her eyelids when he yells, creating a taste of vomit in her mouth as earlier’s watery sensation sticks to the back of her tongue.

The redhead’s arms are tucked beneath her own body from being flipped over against her will, stuck there, and her ribs scream in agony due to strain. It doesn’t help when the man manages to adjust his position to push his forearm horizontally against her throat. A crack comes from her sternum. With each bit of force applied, Becky’s legs attempt to thrash him off, kicking her knees yet hurting her ribs even more in the process. It dims her chances further, and she knows it. She knows he has a valid claim, too; this could very well be it. With oxygen falling scarce, her nostrils feeling like they’re closed against providing any sort of relief, her eyes grow sore and her throat feels like it’s going to burst. Like a kink in a water hose once its contents build up to the maximum amount. Like she’s swallowed a brick and her life builds up beneath it, begging to come out. There’s absolutely no leeway, no path of air reaching her lungs as they pound against her ribs from the inside.

Her limbs gradually weaken, soon refusing to move at all, and she’s suddenly trapped inside her own body. Screaming to escape, pleading with someone to save her. Her friends. Her family. Paige, even. _Someone_ to fucking help.

Apologies swirl in her head. Who she’d say sorry to, who she’d mend bridges with if given the chance. They speak loudly and cry out as she physically can’t. They want to be heard before the end, before her voice is lost on the world. Before she’s a ghost trying her best to guide her teammates through the end of the journey ━ or at least back to safety. She knows she brought this upon herself, but she never wished to bring it upon them. Not these moments. Not this pain, or destruction.

Not this mourning. The inevitable mourning for when the man above her finishes the task, when they find her body and know it’s too late. When Sasha blames herself for saying they should split up. When Bayley places a lone flower on her unmoving chest. When Charlotte stands above her and ironically can't catch her breath because she knew she’d lose Becky at some point.

Presently, Becky knows she’s turning blue. Or maybe a pale purple mixed with magenta. Mentally, she feels blood red, and a white film begins to fade her vision as she stares past her assailant. As a bubble muffles his echoing screams to give up, to just die already. It’s like she’s underwater, floating there and waiting to succumb.

She gets lost in the sky, and soon doesn’t feel like she’s staring at anything in particular. But she can decipher the outline of Heaven despite the doubts that it exists, and she can see multiple people waiting for her. Tears appear at the bottom of her eyes, but she can’t feel them, not even the lone stream of water that drips down her temple. A fuzziness begins to take over, and the taste of her own blood rises into her mouth while her arms are now entirely non-existent to her senses.

She can feel death. She knows it’s almost time to give in, too. Willingly, by now. She knew she was fucked from the start. A walking deadman, for years. As always, by her own hand. It’s only now that the universe is backhanding her and feeding her the meal she cooked up herself.

There’s a white noise in her ears.

Her eyes close, and her body relaxes.

A single apology goes out to those she loves.

But that’s not the end.

At the sound of a single gunshot, with the sensation of warm blood being speckled against her left cheekbone, everything stops. The world’s whitish hue evaporates and the color returns. Her hearing breaks through the ringing in her ears. The brick is lifted from her chest, and the kink is loosened. Her lungs cling to the newfound air, reveling in it and pumping her heart back to its fullest state. She gasps to the point of her lower back curving then recoiling back into the packed dirt below her.

Her final enemy falls to the side while she chokes on her breath and lies on the ground, clenching her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut again to get some feeling back in her limbs. Nails dig into the dirt below her body, soon releasing her arms from behind her back, and she flops them against the ground. With a slight flickering, her eyes open to refocus, tilting her head to the right and following the outline of a person kneeling above her. There’s a gun resting on her stomach soon enough, the person’s hand holding onto it with a timidity and calm intention to see if she’s okay. She blinks another time or two, then breathes out in relief.

“Bayley,” Becky rasps, smiling a little with dry lips but still retaking her grasp on reality. “You━you did that?”

The brunette doesn’t say anything but sits on the ground next to her, leaning to the side and equally out of breath. She slouches over, posture deflated as if her mind hasn’t fully caught up to what she’s done.

All she remembers is rushing through the grass with Charlotte, then seeing a flash of red hair through the smog two houses away. Becky looked like she was in trouble, fighting multiple men. More than what she bargained for, it seemed. She could hear the treasure hunter yelling, too, like they were closing in on her and she couldn’t handle it. She knew she didn’t have time to tell Charlotte, nor could she explain to Sasha that she had to help Becky when there was still a mass of gunfire filtering through the air. Sasha wouldn’t have let her go. By then, it could’ve been too late. And, considering what she just saved Becky from, she would’ve been right.

“Shit, you deserve a raise,” the Irish woman laughs out, albeit weakly before coughing, and Bayley finds the strength to chuckle while planting her hand on the ground and pushing herself upward.

She extends her hand to Becky, brown eyes looking at the offer then reaching for it with ensuing, fragile eyes.

“Pretty good shot for my first time, huh?” Bayley pulls her to her feet just as Charlotte and Sasha jog over to where they are, and Becky blinks away the water from her eyes.

“Are you two okay?” Sasha asks, perplexed and studying the surrounding carnage.

“A bit,” Becky admits with another chuckle, putting up a front. “Thanks to this one, at least,” she gives a sideways nod to Bayley, then clears her throat.

“Why, what happened?” Charlotte seems worried, especially given Becky’s voice like her windpipe’s been damaged, her eyes drifting between the two.

“A close call,” she says as Bayley observes the gun in her hand, “but we’re good.”

The historian stares at Becky for a while longer, noticing how the Irish woman’s throat bobs when she swallows hard and how she bows her head. Her posture is solemn, lacking in confidence. Like she’d lost more than just a piece of sanity in recent moments. She can tell Becky is keeping herself closed off again, not wishing to let any of them look at her like she’s fragile and needs more care. Even when she lifts her chin and stares into the distance, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile, Charlotte can tell it’s synthetic. Normally, she’d find it nauseating, but currently all she feels is sympathy. This time, she can tell Becky is crumbling with confidence dripping through the cracks in her fingers. Powerless to stop it, too. And the treasure hunter is starting to realize it, herself.

A red blotch appears over Becky’s throat, thick like a band with speckles of white still staining her skin, and there’s blood on her face. Not Becky’s blood, certainly. Charlotte’s heart falters, and she wishes to wipe away the remnants of enemy life from the Irish woman’s cheek, but her hands stay by her sides. She doesn’t want to overstep, or draw unwanted attention from the others. Not when Becky is so-obviously scrambling to keep some sort of unnecessary bravado as she periodically clears her throat without the action doing much. She sighs, and turns away.

Behind them, Sasha scavenges and picks up more ammo. This time, Bayley accepts what’s offered to her, and the gun is tucked into the back of her pants. Charlotte can tell that the brunette hopes she’ll be able to ignore its power, or at least manage to contain it for her own use. It’s new, and the apprehension is expected. Feet away, the mercenary notifies Becky that she’s picking up a new gun for her, and the treasure hunter nods in gratitude. Like before, it’s fabricated emotion.

“That way,” Charlotte nods toward the building they have to go next.

“Right,” Becky agrees. “I’ll be there in a sec,” she gives her a curt smile, then proceeds to brush herself off.

Again, the historian’s eyes linger, but she ultimately gives her a mirrored grin before walking off to join Sasha and Bayley. Becky sees Charlotte share a timid nod with Sasha, an unspoken telling that they’re okay. Just to clear the air from minutes prior, that spark of irritation ignited two buildings back. With a last-ditch glance over her shoulder, Charlotte follows Sasha and Bayley behind a wall, gone within the building to leave Becky alone in a quiet clearing.

A slow breath leaves between her lips, Becky patting down her pants, shirt, and skin with shaking hands. Her eyes well up with tears again once the stinging in her throat thumps like a heartbeat, angry at her hands for betraying her so violently in past moments. Their refusal to allow her a straight shot, their refusal to break her free of the man’s grasp, their refusal to stop reminding her of how broken she is now that she’s once again escaped the face of death.

A frown settles across her mouth, and she wipes at her face. The hardening and crusted blood splatter rests against her cheeks, Becky grimacing as she tries to scrape it off then wipes her nails against her thighs. It’s times like these when she wishes she hated this life. Forget the mudslides. Forget the climbing, the jumping. Forget the gross water, the brush they hide in. Maybe _this_ is the worst part. The reminders of moral sacrifice, and her loss of sanity. The reminder that she’s giving it all away in exchange for something tangible. Something to comfort her and bandage her past pain. To make up for something else. It’s always a trade-off.

She makes a face, then looks off into the distance.

There, she sees a cliff hidden behind trees, bent and broken, and the rock formation floats above the platform she stands upon, roughly ten yards away. Her gaze traces its outline, brown eyes narrowing, but they instantly return to their normal state with her lips parting in sync.

Atop the rock stands a woman in tactical gear as she steps to the edge of it, arms cradling a machine gun with the simplest, smallest smirk on her face. She’s ready for a fight, but not right now. She only stands there, staring at Becky. Her lack of movement lets the Irish woman know that their showdown — while inevitable — isn’t for this moment. And that thought may be more menacing than if that gun was raised right in this second. To know they’ll meet in a later juncture is worse. The knowledge is there, but not with an exact time. They’re going to be jumped. Preyed upon until then. It causes Becky to keep herself alert, exposed and peeled back. Frantic. Worried. Sickly feeling. They’ll be picked off, in due time. Again, it’s inevitable.

Even so, despite the face of danger keeping her humbled, the redhead’s jaw stiffens and she stands her ground with a powerful stance, looking into the cold eyes of that woman while taking two, cautious steps to the right, like she’s being stalked by a carnivorous animal but refuses to be stirred.

The woman watches her without moving her neck. Her dark eyes follow Becky’s every move, and she can tell that she’s been fully noticed, her presence acknowledged, and, ultimately, the redhead knows who she is. Without a doubt, she knows. She _remembers._

Cautiously, taking one last look over her shoulder, Becky runs off with the others and disappears into a building.

“Should we go after them, General?”

Her jaw moves to the side, rolling her teeth together as a breath exits her nose. She doesn’t turn to the soldier behind her, instead watching the foursome jump over a gap in the floor and into a connected building.

“Not yet. Give them some time,” it’s mildly amused, sadistic through her accent. “Have ‘em sweat it out. We’ll see them again soon.”

“You heard her,” the soldier yells to the others, and an army of footsteps fade into the distance behind her.

For the first time, she turns away from the scene in front of her, reaching down to unclip the radio from her belt. Her thumb presses against the red, side button, opening the channel to speak.

“Come in, Ms.,” she speaks into it, then waits.

 _“Go,”_ a woman’s voice is heard.

“Your hunch was right,” there’s a sick smile on her face, seeing Becky finally disappear behind a cliff for good. “Our old friend Lynch is here,” she says. “Alive and in the flesh.”

 _“Our runaway thief_ and _our treasure, hm? Two birds, one stone,”_ the person muses. _“I love this island already.”_

There’s a pause, then the following question: _“Did she see you?”_

A breathy laugh is given, more so to herself.

“Oh, she saw me, alright,” it’s devious. “She’s not alone, though,” she adds, “and you’re in for a surprise when you see who she’s brought along.”

Another pause.

_“Give me an hour.”_

The radio is clipped back to her belt, an airy breath being exhaled until it turns into a self-satisfied laugh while moving the gun to hang off her back. Her eyes drift down to her chest, hands gripping her tactical vest and pulling it tighter around her torso until her fingers smooth over the _“Gen. Ripley”_ patch on her chest. She smirks heavily, eyes drifting around the vegetation in front of her before backing up, and following her soldiers away from the cliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just remember, if you kill me, you don't get the rest of the fic...
> 
> No, but we're fine, they're fine, it's fine, everything's fine. Kinda, sorta.
> 
> Anyway, so... this is kind of like a turning point. Somewhat, at least. Becky has a ton on her mind right now, and a lot of it has to do with the fact that she's been able to ignore her misfortune as much as possible, but at the same time... Bayley now witnessed her vulnerability. So, it's kind of hard to ignore, and she's going to have to take some time to bounce back. It's going to be somewhat off-putting for a bit, but she'll manage. On the other hand, she has some things she's obviously still holding onto, and that's going to have to come out sooner or later. Things are getting intense. 
> 
> Either way, with pain comes progress (at least in some sense ???), and we definitely found that here. Charlotte is now pushing herself to get things done, and so is Bayley. We'll see more of that, and we'll see what true badasses they are. Bayley really damn proved it today, huh? 
> 
> Hope to see you again (despite me putting y'all and Becky through it)!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, before we begin... I had a note at the top of this chapter telling me to admit it's not the most !!! update, so there's that. The reason is because it was part of next chapter, but both parts got WAY TOO LONG, so, alas, I had to split them. Again. (Which I suppose can be a good thing because YAY more content, but come on). 
> 
> Anyway, time to read.

MON., 2:53 P.M.

* * *

She clears her throat for the fifth time in two minutes. Along with the internal, burning scratch comes another wave of irritation, Becky shaking her head just enough to feel her neck creaking. If the vivid depiction of that man’s forearm pressed against her throat wasn’t enough to cause remembrance of what transpired minutes ago, then the consuming soreness would.

And it’s not just her windpipe that took the brunt of it. It’s not the only part that screams with pain. Because, although she’s been able to up and move with her team throughout the following buildings, swinging and climbing and jumping, she’s also been focused on the still-subsiding tingling within her limbs. The feeling of ants packed within her veins and just under her top layer of skin. Or maybe it’s television static, or the sensation of dry sand moving back and forth as if her body is an hourglass. At the same time, her arms and legs also feel like jelly. Even with the tickling sensation, she secondly feels numb. Her limbs are cool and heavy. Ready to break off at any given moment, or ready to make her collapse on the spot. Her eye sockets, additionally, have their own heartbeat. There’s a thumping behind her eyes, below her eyes, around her eyes, all the way to the bridge of her nose and spreading throughout her forehead. Like her brain is pulsating, ready to explode and splatter against the walls of her skull.

All in all, Becky feels like absolute shit. Mentally, emotionally, physically. She feels scared, and she feels jumpy. Alerted, panicked, and intimidated. For the first time on this venture, she feels like she’s been backed into a corner, and she’s the prey. She knows she’s the prey, judging by her recent show-down with the milita’s commander. Her throat bobs when she blinks hard and lowers her chin, trying to shake off her apprehension.

Whenever the group pauses, she can feel Charlotte’s sympathy shooting right through her. It’s chilly. Frigid, even. Despite the blonde’s care being warm, coddling, like she wants to wrap her in a big hug and hold tight, all Becky can feel is iciness. And, even if she didn’t, she wouldn’t want the sympathy, anyway. In due time, the treasure hunter knows she’ll push through it and ignore the woes that riddle her, and sympathy won’t have anything to do with it. She just has to push forward against the grain. Do what she does best in hunting down Avery’s treasure so they can flee from the island without a scratch or further bump. Without further damage to her psyche, to her mindset, to her sanity. Their _sanity,_ especially. God, if anything ever happened to them━

“Hey,” Bayley interrupts her thoughts ━ thankfully, “are you okay?”

They’re stalled on a wooden platform, figuring out their next move. Sasha’s figuring it out, at least. With Bayley next to Becky, waiting for an answer, Charlotte stands at the corner of the platform with her attention perked. She tries not to be too obvious, but still eavesdrops on the conversation. Her curiosity to know how Becky is faring continues to distract her, and maybe she’ll get an answer via Bayley’s equal interest.

“Uh,” she thinks, pausing for a second or two while seeming out of place, “yeah. Yeah, I’m just… keeping my eyes peeled, I guess.”

It’s not necessarily a lie, but Bayley can tell it’s not the full truth, either. She tilts her head to the side, eyes fragile but also convincing. _Soft_ ━ the brunette’s most prominent trait. This time, Bayley doesn’t mind being dubbed as such. This time, she can use it to her advantage. The perpetual softness that’s often a curse, now used as a weapon. Becky can tell it’s what she’s doing, too.

In fact, the look Bayley gives her grows to be too much quite quickly. Becky plays with her fingers and lowers her eyes to her boots, swallowing hard again. It nearly causes a whimper to come forward when the pain is sharper than before. There’s a certain sting within her windpipe, and the Irish woman knows ━ for certain ━ that it’s damaged in some way, shape, or form. Currently, it’s like she’d swallowed a shard of glass that’s embedded in its wall. The taste of blood sticks around, as well, being overly metallic and warm, like there’s a thick substance waiting to be thrown up onto the wooden boards beneath her shoes.

A deliberate breath escapes her throat, and her lips seal. Overall, she’s mostly scared for them. For Bayley, for Sasha, and definitely for Charlotte. She’s scared for the entanglement of insane danger they’ve scrambled into, and how they won’t be escaping it anytime soon. She’s scared for how, suddenly, Bayley needs a weapon to protect herself when, earlier, she didn’t even want to look at firearms. She’s scared for the inevitable waves of soldiers they’ll be facing again, whether it’s in five minutes, or five hours, or five days. If they’re still here, that is. No matter what, they’ll be facing more of them, even if they don’t know when. No matter what, the militia is beginning to close in, and, no matter what, they’ll soon be coming face to face with the person who no one but Becky knows.

Fuck, how could Becky possibly warn them about the inevitability of danger without their suspicions bombarding her with question after question? How can she possibly, _dreadfully_ say, “They’re not going to stop,” without earning looks of creased foreheads and frowns? And, if she _did_ say that, would they take the warning with its full weight? Or would they only think it’s a mere statement ━ an assumption ━ that they already figured out?

Her mind screams at her to tell them. To warn them, to say that they need to move ultra quickly, or possibly even hide out until nightfall once the secret army hides away for mandatory rest. To call off the mission entirely, even if she didn’t say why. For the first time, she’s wondering if this is the universe’s final warning. Its giant siren flashing in the sky that commands her to turn around and head back to the mainland. To scrap the treasure she’s been hunting for years. To retreat to Madagascar and wither away without following Avery’s trail to the very end. Wither away with the knowledge that she’ll never be able to complete the dream that both she and Paige held onto for so long. Wither away without succeeding for the sake of her sanity.

At this point, how much of it is left, anyway? Does it even matter? She’ll push forward on this trail so she can save herself. So she can save her energy, her dwindling happiness, her own life, that aforementioned sanity, but at what cost? What use is pushing forward to save one’s own life emotionally, only to perhaps lose it physically? In the end, what good does that do?

It doesn’t. It doesn’t do good.

Becky licks her lips and ignores the nagging thickness in the atmosphere. She reaches up and rubs the back of her hand against her nostrils, scrunching her nose and pretending she just blanked for a moment.

“Thank you again,” the redhead flashes Bayley a quick half-smile. “For... back there. Though, I wish you didn’t have to…” her eyes widen, sentence dropping off.

It’s not what Bayley was expecting, but she detects Becky’s unwavering gratitude. Even more than she’s portraying. She can see the short glimmer in brown eyes, how she wishes to say more, or repay her in a way that doesn’t exist. She can tell that Becky believes she owes her the life she’d saved, but it’s unnecessary. Bayley doesn’t regret a thing, and she trusts that Becky would do the same, if it ever came down to it.

“I know,” Bayley nods, then tilts her head to the side again. “But a small piece of sanity lost is nothing compared to your life being taken. At least, in my opinion,” she gives her a tiny shrug.

The words strike harder than Bayley knows. They dig deeper than she intended. Becky’s insides shake, and her hands ball into fists by her sides before she relaxes them with force. Outwardly, she puts on a bittersweet smile, and Bayley walks away to rejoin Sasha in searching for their next path. It leaves the treasure hunter to release a frail breath that nearly makes her choke, eyes watering before she blinks it away. She looks off the platform where they stand, staring out beyond the vegetation below and watching the sea move in its natural state. A calming sight, but not enough to heal the damage. Not enough to provide a psychological shelter against the storm they’re in the midst of. Her eyes bore into it, face expressionless.

Nearby, Charlotte gives her a tiny, admirable grin. She wishes she could ask her own form of if Becky’s okay, but she’s sure that she’d get a similar response to Bayley’s. Beyond that, she knows she should let the woman breathe on her own time. It’s just that her mind yearns for the scenario of Becky collapsing into her arms. The idea of being Becky’s prime source of comfort ━ her main outlet, her rock. It’s a notion that the historian holds onto tightly, and always has. She wants to be the person to pick her up, help sort through her feelings, and make a mutual decision of which way to go about cleansing her mind. Because there’s no doubt that Becky needs a mental clean-up.

No matter what, Becky needs a refresher. To have whatever weight she’s holding be taken from her shoulders, even momentarily, whether it’s by Charlotte’s hands or someone else’s. And that’s an idea the blonde has to accept. It’s something she’s _willing_ to accept. Because, even if it doesn’t end up being her who’s Becky’s first choice, at least she’ll know that someone’s out there taking care of the treasure hunter. Someday, that is. As long as Becky remains happy, and as long as her mind ends up clear, airy and free, then she’ll be okay. They’ll both be okay.

“That way’s our best bet,” Sasha leans against the single most solid wall of the current house, pointing straight into another building. “There’s a ladder to the second floor. Everything else around is rubble, and I don’t trust it.”

Becky hums, “Lead the way.”

The answer, in itself, makes Sasha quirk an eyebrow, but Bayley gently nudges the mercenary forward. Bayley knows how fragile Becky has become since the altercation earlier, and she knows what happened to make her that way. In respect to Becky, she’s chosen not to explain its severity to the others of their group. If the redhead wants them to know, she’ll explain it. For now, it’s up to them to carry the trail while Becky follows along and recuperates.

Charlotte thinks the same as Sasha, noting how strange the response was when all Becky has otherwise vehemently claimed that she’s the captain of their crew. She smiles at the former proclamation, the redhead’s cheekiness and childish argument, but it’s mainly in memory of it. Becky is currently a shell of who she’s been, and it’s hard to stomach. The Irish woman doesn’t even look like she’s mentally present. Like her eyes are vacant behind their brown color, and, even physically, they’re skittish once they lock with anyone else’s. It’s like she’s ashamed of something that happened, and the possibilities that swirl in Charlotte’s mind in regards of what happened could cause her, too, to break down where they stand.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she gives a leftover glance to Becky who tries to force another faltering smile, then follows Sasha and Bayley into the next house. The jump is simple, straight to the point, but the Irish woman practices patience by watching her footing. She balances on shaky knees, holding her vibrating hands at her sides, but manages to clear the obstacle so they’re all standing within the house that’s perched on the very edge of the cliff, almost hovering above open air.

By now, it’s as if the cliff, itself, has crumbled under the weight of construction. The houses are left anchored to the ground by thick boards that haven’t snapped yet, or unwavering balance that refuses to tilt them down against the slope. Either way, it’s precarious, and each step is a risk of its own. For that reason, the women stay huddled on the more-anchored side of the buildings, sticking against the walls closest to the cliff and away from that infinite drop.

While the others ascend the old, wooden ladder with creaks echoing through the small home, Becky peeks through a window on the western wall. She can see their destination. The massive, three-towered structure getting closer as they travel through Libertalia’s outskirts. It’s surrounded by three or four more, large buildings, like a cluster of highly rated establishments. It’s clear that they were designed as the town’s richer area, their copper roofs tarnished into a tealish green with larger-than-life designs along the edge. She wonders of its use, its purpose. If it was perhaps Libertalia’s business neighborhood, or where their royalty resided. Perhaps where Avery, himself, stayed ━ or at least spent most of his time. It’s definitely something of regalty, something important compared to the other establishments they’d walked through, and her curiosity stays at a constant while her eagerness rises. Soon, they’ll know.

With her partners on the upper level, her turn for the ladder comes. It’s a punctual climb, again simple and straightforward, but it still provides three or four moments of wincing. Like before, her ribs burn against her sides, but, unlike earlier, she’s unable to ignore the pain. It’s far more excruciating now, feeling like one rib actually snapped as a result of her lungs nearly growing five times their normal size. Like it’s scraping against the inner wall of her skin, waiting to slide through and poke out like a wooden stake. She takes deep, open-mouthed breaths as she treads one rung after another, pausing a time or two before she pulls herself onto the next level with the others.

It takes her an extra few seconds before she places her palms on the dusty, wooden floor and stands up. In her mind, she knows she looks pathetic. Part of her dreads the thought of looking up to find her team staring at her through such sympathy. To reiterate: sympathy isn’t something she needs. Her jaw tightens a time or two, then slacks.

Once ready, Becky pauses, gathers her strength, and straightens her back, only to find comfort in knowing that she wasn’t being assessed like a wounded child. Specifically, she finds comfort in the serene view that’s unfolded before her: Charlotte leaning against the wall of the tower, sunlight seeping through the window in front of her and cascading a whitish glow onto blue-green eyes. The tips of her hair dance with the wind, as well, and there’s a sweet scent in the air. A glow around them, too. Becky melts into the woman’s eyes without moving from the trapdoor’s mouth. She’s stuck in place, staring at the color with her lips parted. Moonstruck, entirely. If they didn’t look like the humane embodiment of oceans before, they certainly do now. The historian’s features are contemplative, thinking hard about something with the tiniest pout making her lower lip push forward slightly. Her arms are crossed, but she looks comfortable. Not angry, not irritated, and not solemn. For the first time in a while, she looks… _peaceful._ And that’s a lot to take in considering how the recent hours have been anything _but_ tranquil.

As always, Becky and Charlotte are on separate wavelengths. In this case, however, Becky wouldn’t have it any other way. She doesn’t mind being on the shorter end of the stick, looking up at Charlotte thriving, even in such a minute way. While Becky currently can’t focus on the positives of surrounding events ━ and she’s sure the historian can’t wholly do so, either ━ it’s still uplifting to see her soaking in the view. Making light of a bad situation. Taking the newfound scenery for what it is, instead of what it holds. What it brings them, like struggle and pain. Right now, that’s what Becky needs, and that’s what she admires. She can’t help but smile, actually.

Bayley catches it, and so does Sasha. They both give the sight a pair of diluted grins that aren’t noticed by the other two, then they go about their business of finding a new route.

The floor creaks as they walk, and it ultimately snaps Charlotte’s attention away from the three-sixty views. Because of that, Becky is caught staring. On sight, the redhead’s mouth opens and closes just barely, at a loss for words to defend herself, but she looks at Charlotte who smiles at her. A rosy tint warms the historian’s cheeks, realizing that she’d been studied during her moment of peace, but the color provides Becky with a fluttering feeling within her chest. It beats out the somberness and former chill, spreading a kinder tingle through her veins as she does her best to match the warmer attitude of the woman in front of her. There’s an unspoken question as Charlotte tilts her head to the side, taking her chance in asking Becky if she’ll be alright, and the Irish woman hesitates before nodding. In contrast to before, she means it.

Maybe she’s not okay right now, but, with her friends by her side, she knows she will be. In due time, she’ll recover. No matter what they face, they’ve become a vital role in how her mood changes or keeps leveled, how she finally operates with a well-tempered mindset, and she’d thank them a million times over if she could. She’d erase their problems, their innermost challenges, everything negative that ails them. She’d do it all, just to keep them around. Each one of them. Sincerely, she just hopes they know it. In time, she hopes she can even prove it.

“Looks like we’re going out this window and up the wall to the next floor,” Sasha explains, Charlotte and Becky turning to her. “We’ll figure out where to go from there. The next house is the last one in line, so.”

 _So,_ hopefully that doesn’t bring them to a dead end. Becky reads Sasha’s tight-lipped smile and huffs out a breath, nodding in acceptance and agreement.

“Would you like to go first?” the mercenary offers her a teasing smirk, and Becky manages a weak laugh.

“I’ll lead for the next one,” she promises.

“Whatever you say, Hot Head.”

It gets a healthier laugh, and Charlotte smiles at both the sound and sight before passing Becky and following the others through the window. The redhead follows close by, not wanting to get left behind as they climb to the upper level and through the above window that’s more crumbled than below. In fact, most of the platform is ready to break at any moment, and they’re mindful of where they step.

As she observes the new room, she notices a patch of sagging boards in the southeastern corner of the floor, previously undetected from below. Through its cracks, they’re able to see patches of light come through, notifying them of how fragile the planks must be. They avoid the corner, and turn their attention to the following building ━ A.K.A. the last building in line. Now that they have a better view, they can see how it’s almost tipping into the one where they stand. It’s leaning close, but not touching. Even so, there’s still too big of a gap to reach it by jumping. Becky frowns. The window from which they entered the room is even too far from the parallel wall, too much of a space of empty air between with loose boards being the only grabbable structures on the other house. Too much of a gamble, really.

Her eyes narrow in thought, turning around. To her right, she peers through a collapsing doorway ━ the only doorway in the area ━ and realizes that it’s attached to a balcony. It earns a puzzled frown, and she carefully slides her boots along the floor so she can peek around the corner. That’s where she finds the only plausible route, albeit still an iffy one.

Above the balcony are three, metal poles jutting out from the house horizontally, resembling makeshift monkey bars separated by five feet between each. There’s no doubt that they’ll have to swing their bodies and jump from bar to bar instead of grabbing them one arm after another. All while hovering above thousands of feet of open air, even higher than when they exited the well. Nothing to catch them. Only crusted metal that they’ll have to pray still holds to its full strength as they trust it to keep them hovering above that distance. They’ll have to pay attention to how they swing, as well, and additionally pray that their palms don’t stick to the clammy texture of the bars. Still, it’s less of a gamble than jumping from the other window to the platform and, frankly, those loose boards.

Becky presses her tongue to her inner cheek, eyes narrowing at the obstacle. It’s a challenge, for sure, but one she’s positive they have to accept. Her gaze follows the spindles one by one, noting their individual contours and blemishes. Thankfully nothing too bad, she thinks. Still, those three, alone, wont get the job done, but it appears that they wrap around the corner. From what she can see, at least. With that in mind, she runs back into the house as her companions watch her silently yet amusingly, interested in her quiet epiphany. It’s like her normal personality has returned, at least momentarily, and no one wants to ruin it.

At the window, Becky sticks her head through the opening to see where the bars lead, turning so she can look upwards. Above the window, three more of the same spindles are stuck into the wall, all poking out of the surface and leading to the house they need to reach. A second, wooden board is nailed flat against the upright structure’s closest wall, roughly six feet below the platform that they’ll have to pull themselves onto. Everything appears sturdy enough. Even if it didn’t, they’d still have no choice. That’s the only way to the larger building, and otherwise it _is_ a dead end.

With a breath, she faces her teammates.

“Who’s up for some monkey bars?”

Charlotte squints, Bayley makes a funny face, and Sasha puts her hands on her hips.

She tucks the misplaced batch of comedy away, sealing her lips before detailing, “There are some bars jutting out from the top portion of this tower. I say we use them to swing ourselves to the next building. There’s an open platform for us to pull up onto. Otherwise…”

Her explanation trails off, fading into oblivion and ending with a shrug until she asks, “How ‘bout it?”

“You’re going first,” Sasha reminds, and Becky’s face twists in realization.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” her nails scratch the back of her neck as she walks toward the balcony. “Well, since I’m nothing if not a woman of my word…” like before, she doesn’t finish the sentence, and Bayley chuckles with a hint of nervousness.

The impending anxiety drums up within their stomachs. Particularly while watching Becky pull herself onto the railing of the balcony, only to hear a gradual cracking noise grow louder.

Until it stops.

Charlotte swears she nearly vomits at the sound before it’s gone, like nothing happened. Even the sight of Becky trying to rebalance herself is unnerving, arms out wide as she carefully turns to face the first rung. They hold their breath, feeling time slow down for the sake of stirring their anxiety until it’s blended like fruit in a canister. Each woman can feel herself shaking where she awaits her turn, Charlotte wringing her fingers together as Becky bends her knees and propels herself through the air.

Her hands catch onto the bar with ease ━ desperation, more like ━ and her fingers cling to it. Quickly, her weight catches up to the moment, gravity looking up at her like a monster exiting the clouds below with a toothy smile. It threatens to pull her downwards by her ankles, tugging hard as her wrists grow cool with her blood taking to the position and dripping south. In the meantime, her throat’s soreness resurfaces as she dangles there, feet above the unforgiving ground somewhere lost beyond the mountain’s fog. Her eyes refuse to focus on the empty air beneath her boots, clenching closed. Instead, that focus is directed on her ribs crying out to end the pain. To end this endurance of stress on her torso that stretches her legs away from her upper half in a way that makes her sides feel like they’re being ripped to shreds. She bears her teeth and swings to the second spindle, groaning in the process.

“This is worse than boot camp,” Sasha remarks with widened eyes, and Becky snickers.

“Is it, really?” she grunts when her left arm begins to go numb a second time. “I’ve never been,” it’s pained, swinging to the following pole. “Feel free to follow anytime, guys.”

Unfortunately, that’s their cue. All three remaining women look between each other, expressions a mix of distress and mild pleading in hopes that someone will volunteer to go next. Luckily for Sasha and Charlotte, Bayley does, and Becky checks behind her outstretched arm to see who’s next once she hears footsteps. A clink follows, notifying her that Bayley has successfully made it to the first bar. At the sound, the treasure hunter finds it’s okay to start moving again, seeing a diagonal bar poking out of the building’s corner so they’ll be heading around a bend. This one is closer, so it’s less of a jump, and they’ll be able to ease their aching arms for a second or two. Becky huffs.

Charlotte goes third. Her turn is taken after a short round of hesitance accompanied by closed eyes and three, deep breaths. On contact with the first rung, her palms stick to the moist surface, clenching her fingers around it and trying to free them of the stickiness. Her nose scrunches as she hangs there, making sure to keep enough distance between her and Bayley so neither of them get stuck in place or feel rushed. Once the brunette is on the corner bar, Charlotte proceeds, and leaves Sasha to go last.

By now, Becky is on the final spindle, gaining some swinging speed before launching herself at the precise interval and cleanly grasping onto the upper deck with the ends of her fingers. At the same time, her toes press against the flattened board nailed to the wall, just enough to give her some leverage when hopping and pulling herself onto the wooden surface where she exhales. Where she relieves herself of the overwhelming stress, as well. Crouched with her bent knee against the platform, she happily discovers that the wooden planks are sturdy, all held together by three walls still standing. Barely, but just enough. There’s even a door on the opposite wall, and she figures they’ll be heading that way once they’re all set here.

Until then, she waits. It isn’t long before a third of her finalized relief makes it through as Bayley swings to the wall. Immediately, Becky hears a comforting thud matched by a grunt. She helps pull the brunette onto the deck, giving her a strained “There you go, lass.”

Bayley sits on the dirty floor for a handful of seconds once she’s secure, catching her breath in huffs like Becky had. Meanwhile, the Irish woman waits for the others at the edge of the platform, watching Charlotte round the corner in the span of a blink. At the sight, Beck’s heart jumps into her throat and takes refuge there, breath halted and refusing to turn away.

The historian tries her hardest to ignore it. To ignore the blatant concern and attention zoned in on her body language and her movements. She tries her hardest to focus on herself, instead. Her own movements as she swings from rung to rung rather easily. Anything to get the obstacle over with. Anything to get past the daunting height above which she hangs.

Her last swing doesn’t come too far later. Once she’s standing upon the flattened board, Becky obliges and does the same which she had done for Bayley. Charlotte’s fingertips reach up and Becky locks their hands, strongly pulling the historian onto the platform.

“Thank you,” it’s exhaled, and Becky stares at her.

There’s suddenly a voice in her head telling her to say something. Not just a plain “You’re welcome,” but to confess about how impressed she’s been with Charlotte. Even if it’d come out bashfully, with a shy smile and hidden eyes. And her tongue moves to say it, too. She’s about to make her thoughts known before her attention is diverted by a pale-faced Sasha on the second to the last rung.

Right then and there, Becky can tell the outlook isn’t good. She can tell the height is getting to their mercenary, if not the workload, itself. The extent of it all, being dangled above absolutely nothing after powering through an adrenaline-induced situation. Although Sasha as acclimated to such scenarios full of gunfire and carnage, the whiplash of that specific endurance followed by a task that makes her queasy such as this one… Becky’s sure it’s having some ill-effects. The color of Sasha’s face says so.

But, so far, the mercenary has been able to stomach it, and she’s pressed forward against the seven or so other rungs. It isn’t until she’s on the last spindle that the distance to the ground becomes too much for Sasha to ignore, too much for her to turn away from. Slowly, her chin tilts downward to the fog. Becky watches her face contort in dismay, slamming her eyes shut and squaring her jaw so tightly that the redhead wonders if she’s about to throw up.

 _“No,_ Pinky, don’t look down,” her voice lowers as she coaches her through it. “This is as bad as it gets. Can’t quit now.”

Her words are lost on the mercenary who sways above thin air. Sasha swallows hard, mouth tumbling open with sharp breaths being taken. Like she’s on the brink of hyperventilating, or simply zoned out to the point of short-circuiting and losing her grip. And there’s absolutely no way the treasure hunter can help her other than via compliments and encouragement. There’s no way to jump and reach her, should Sasha let go. Even if there was, they’d be falling together, and leaving their other two partners on the platform to watch them disappear into the mist. That wouldn’t help anyone.

Behind Becky, Bayley bites her tongue and feels frantic, but she’s stuck in place. Charlotte, too. They only watch, hoping Sasha pushes through it like she’s done for everything else they’ve faced. She has to, they think. She just has to.

Hanging there, once they open, Sasha’s eyes burn into the fog below her feet. She looks past her boots, watching puffs of moist air topple over each other before there are breaks between. She spots the greenery, the assortment of vegetation, and how the trees look like toothpicks from this high up. How she can’t even see where the ground is, but she’s sure it’s there. She sees the remnants of houses that had fallen at various points in the past decades, crumbled into pieces with others staying mainly intact. The reds, the whites, the vines overtaking each manmade structure and their lifeless pieces. Inanimate pieces of humanity, scattered atop the fluffy heads of trees, shrubbery, everything else. She prays that doesn’t end up her own fate.

Still, Becky’s voice can hardly penetrate the film over her ears. It sounds muffled, distanced and hardly there. Like she’s stuck in a dream. In a _nightmare._ Three breaths are taken, feeling the blood in her arms beginning to slow down. Beginning to _cool_ down. Numbing her, and straining her neck as her body weight becomes too much to hold onto the bar.

It isn’t until the bar, itself, begins to give into the rust ━ begins to give out and bend at its origin ━ that her adrenaline comes back full force. It’s at the same time that Becky stammers, “No, no, no,” with bugging eyes, immediately lunging to the ledge and sliding on her stomach right as Sasha jumps to the same area. Right as the pole gives out, falling completely to the ground. Right as the mercenary’s life flashes before _all_ of their eyes.

Becky grabs ahold of Sasha as she hangs against the side of the building, the redhead’s nose scrunched as she grits her teeth and reaches down with two hands. She pulls her up in ignorance to her damaged ribs, grinding out a raspy “I gotcha” as Sasha helps by scraping the toes of her boots against the side of the building.

Everyone breathes out a collective sigh of relief once Sasha is coming over the edge and standing next to Becky, the redhead’s arm still around the other woman’s torso and holding her close as they look down the side of the building. They breathe in sync, looking at what would’ve been Sasha falling to her death as a remaining part of the pole crumbles and falls into the fog. Again, the height gets to the mercenary’s resolve more than she’d admit, shifting even closer to Becky. However, that’s when they both shake themselves out of their fearful trance, realizing their close proximity and looking at each other with an unspoken, mild disgust. They forcibly separate with Charlotte smirking nearby, and Becky’s hand drops from the woman’s waist as she crosses her arms. Still, she laughs through her deep breaths, Sasha now bending over with her hands on her knees and Bayley’s hand flat on her back.

“Look at that,” the hunter muses with a lightness. “That’s skill on adrenaline.”

“You know,” Sasha huffs, still bent over, “out of all the treasure hunters I’ve worked with, you’re the craziest.”

Charlotte seals her lips to suppress a snicker. For once, she laughs at the idea of Lazarević and his obscene obsession with the concept of power. She laughs at Sasha’s comparison to his odd determination, and the events that lead him to drink radioactive sap from a tree. Becky must’ve forgotten, on the other hand.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

This time, the historian fully laughs along with Sasha, and Becky frowns.

“What?” she can’t help but smile at their reactions, nonetheless.

“Nothing,” Charlotte’s lips seal, but the remnants of a smirk remain curving her mouth.

Becky eyes her, squinting partially before relenting and turning away. It’s just too much right now. But, admittedly, Charlotte has to tuck her lower lip between her teeth to keep herself from smiling more than she has already. The eye contact is growing to be too much in recent minutes, and she feels the same amount of nervousness that she imagines Becky is.

The redhead wanders across the room, Charlotte moving with her but not too close.

“This way,” Becky looks over her shoulder as she walks toward the door.

Her hand reaches for the doorknob with a readiness to turn it, fingers wrapping around the metal, but she’s startled when the entire door falls off its hinges. In the blink of an eye, it reveals that, passing the threshold, there’s absolutely nothing but open air behind it. No floor, no wall, no nothing. Becky almost falls forward with it, as well. That is, until Charlotte wraps an arm around her midsection and hastily pulls her back into the room. Saving her skin yet again, they both think.

The Irish woman breathes heavily while studying the sheer drop, shoulder moving with her acute hyperventilation and tingling body. The floating bubbles moving toward the top of her vision, too, being a result of so much panic in a brief span of time. Next to her, Charlotte catches her breath as Becky stares downward, and the woman’s arm is released from around her. Becky misses the contact instantly.

“Thanks,” she says without blinking away. “Watch that first step, huh?”

Her voice is frail, and the joke quakes with nerves. It provides solid evidence that Becky’s adrenaline is running thin when it comes to keeping up with her normally courageous self. It’s proven especially when the hunter forcibly raises her chin and turns to face the blonde that saved her. The historian nods at her gratitude, the shining eyes that stare at her, then takes a breath of her own.

“Be careful,” Charlotte whispers, a tiny smile tugging at one corner of her lips.

It’s paired with a flicker of genuine love within ocean eyes, and Becky loses herself in the color for three or four seconds. Her lips part and she can’t turn away, only managing the smallest nod with an even smaller, childish posture. For once, she accepts Charlotte’s care, and it puts the historian at ease.

Becky can’t delve too far into it right now, though. She clears her throat of its newfound scratchiness, then peers through the now-opened doorway to find a skinny ledge that they’ll have to shimmy along to turn the corner toward the massive buildings. Once again, it’s the only way.

“Right,” she faces the others, nodding her head toward the stubby plank. “We gotta hug the wall for this one.”

“Softy’s specialty,” Sasha smirks.

“You betcha,” the woman in mention beams, and the mercenary snickers at her unhindered, prideful amusement.

Sliding against the wall, along the plank, is the easiest part. The only difficulty lies within ignoring the blatant creaking and occasional bending of the board, the slumping of its center once they’re standing atop a rotting portion. Each time, the women’s eyes slam shut in a silent prayer that they’ll make it through. That the plank will hold them despite its sounds and appearance. Due to the unknown and the non-subsiding fear, they space themselves out accordingly, not wanting to put too much weight on it at once. In retrospect, it’s practically cemented into the wall to the point of only flaking and chipping here and there. Otherwise, it’s relatively well-anchored and sturdy enough for the group to make it around the corner and to the end with flying colors.

The end drops off, and, at first, Becky frowns at the appearance. The idea that it leads nowhere. That they’re suddenly stuck on a board with no ground below them, and nowhere else to go. Nowhere to swing to, either. But, once she focuses harder, she discovers multiple, horizontal beams nailed to the wall like on its frontside, creating a makeshift ladder that’s been covered in vines. They’ll have to climb it to the top of the tower, but that sure as hell beats standing here and waiting for the wooden slab to give out.

From where she slinks along the last strip of board, she can see the giant clearing they’ll be facing within the next few minutes. The clearing before the platform that’s at least seventy yards away, and fortunately high enough so they can grapple onto a stray tree’s branch, then toss themselves upwards to fly. Eventually, with the proper arc and speed, they should be able to land on its surface with so much as a short sweat. Technically speaking, it’ll be the longest jump they’ve accomplished, so far, and Becky fears for Sasha.

But she can’t pay attention to it until they reach the top of the tower.

“Up here,” she notifies them of the supports. “Climb these to the top. We’ll gather ourselves up there before making our next move.”

“Which is?” of course, Sasha is the one to ask, and Becky seals her lips.

“Ehm…” is the only thing that comes out, and the mercenary sighs.

“Don’t like the sound of that.”

A series of grunts and four flattened rungs later, the foursome is standing atop a stone roof, all overlooking the scenery. They can make out everything from where they stand, and Sasha keeps in its center while turning this way and that. As long as she’s not looking straight down, she can keep herself calm. At least, that’s what she’s learned.

Charlotte appears most astounded by their surroundings’ beauty. The sun is in its prime stage, currently, as it shines down against everything in its path. The assortment of trees, the shrubs, the other plantlife, the vines, the wooden pieces of chipped-away Libertalia houses. The birds flying overhead, even. A breeze sways the foliage beyond the dispersing fog, a rustling echoing through the air as their hair brushes against their faces. Becky pushes hers behind her ear, her motions absentminded while taking everything in. Quite frankly, the views just get better and better. If this trip ultimately provides them with nothing, then at least they’ve been subjected to some of the nicest scenery the world has to offer. Some of the nicest scenery that very little of humanity has been able to witness. That’s history, in itself.

The blonde smiles.

“There’s our building,” Bayley points out, Charlotte and Becky turning away from the views.

Opposite of the open air and scenic panorama is a cut-into, large mansion those seventy yards away. It’s near-completely cut in half with the face of it missing a wall, like a dollhouse for young kids to stick their hands into. They can make out the different rooms, resembling cubicles of an office building with knocked-over furniture and peeling wallpaper. Boards sticking out, some of them rounded at the edges with others being splintered, like they’d snapped recently. Chandeliers dangle in some rooms, being golden with spaces for pillar candles to be slid into. Paintings also hang tilted on occasional walls, sometimes fallen onto the floor, but their images are hard to decipher when they’re covered in dust, dirt, moss, all of the above. Overall, it’s a lot to take in, and Becky has to blink hard.

Besides that, the group has to reach the main portion of the building. The courtyard that’s built in the center. From where they stand atop the stone roof, they can only see a fraction of it, as the front entrance is blocked by piles of debris and stray trees. In fact, there are trees scattered between where they scope out the scene and the following building, branches sticking out far enough with a moderate thickness that the women will be depending on.

Immediately, Sasha’s heart falters, and a dismayed laugh exits her throat. She knows exactly what the plan is, and Becky gives her a impish look with her head ducking. Like she’s been caught.

“We’re…” she tries, pointing vaguely and starting over. “We’re swinging to that platform over there?”

Her eyebrows are raised, like she’s hoping that’s not the case. Like she’s begging someone to correct her, or soothe her woes. Becky’s eyes drift to the wooden platform, lacking an answer. She eyes the lone option they have. The only option to get them closer to their destination, once and for all. She makes a _“yikes”_ face, then looks at Sasha again.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” it’s comical, not angry yet not loving the idea.

The mercenary’s inability to stunt her nervousness gains Becky’s attention, this time. It’s unlike Sasha to own up to it, but now it seems as though it’s grinding against the woman’s nerves too much to ignore. She’ll admit it: this is a massive jump, bigger than anything they’ve faced before, but it’s not like Sasha hasn’t gone on expeditions prior to this one. Then again, Becky isn’t even sure what she’s dealt with in previous scenarios. Her eyes narrow, and her head tilts to the side.

“What kind of treasure have you hunted before?”

Sasha pauses with her thumb against her lips.

“Why?” she frowns, skeptical.

“Most treasure I aim for calls for a good amount of climbing and swinging, that’s all,” she puts her hands on her hips. “You don’t seem fit for it.”

“I’m fit for it,” Sasha narrows her eyes in challenge, being defensive. “My fear of heights is not,” she admits it, rapidfire and lighthearted before walking away like she hadn’t said a word.

Becky and Charlotte go wide-eyed, even if they already knew. To hear it come from the mercenary, herself, is extreme. A milestone, in a darker form of the term. Meanwhile, Bayley’s posture deflates little by little, but more so out of being proud of Sasha for admitting it. For coming to terms with it, even if she’s tried her hardest not to. The brunette smiles, even if Sasha’s back is turned, but clears her throat to wipe the expression from her face.

“You have a fear of—” Becky’s voice squeaks and she can’t finish her sentence, laughing. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? Did you know?” she suddenly looks at Charlotte.

“Of course I didn’t know,” Charlotte responds immediately, but her attention moves back to the purple-haired woman who faces them and shrugs.

“Fifty million is a lot of money,” Sasha changes route, flashing them a tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah, I know,” Becky says dully.

“I’ll be fine. I made it this far.”

“Oh, God, don’t jinx it,” Charlotte mutters, walking away and passing Bayley who approaches Sasha.

The redhead is about to continue with the banter as she sees Bayley approach, deciding to bite her tongue, instead. She watches their locking eyes and their silent conversation, but quickly decides to give them some room by minding her own business and pretending to focus on the limb they’ll be grappling onto.

Bayley stands in front of Sasha, her eyes bright and knowing. Like always, the mercenary tries turning away from the look she’s given but can’t find the strength to. Her shoulders slump and she gives Bayley a shy grin. An _admitting_ grin.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” the brunette whispers.

“I’m fine, honestly,” it’s quiet but thankful for the care, and Bayley can tell.

The smile on Bayley’s face grows, and it’s mirrored completely by the woman in front of her. For a moment, they get lost, and, for a moment, Becky lets them. Until she finally realizes that they’re not about to break out of their enwrapture in each other, that is. Not anytime soon, at least.

“Not that I like to interrupt such tender moments, but we’ve got some treasure a’waitin’.”

They hardly have the time to refocus before the Irish woman is tossing her grapple onto the branch, making sure it’s wrapped, and taking the swing head-on. With her example, they’re able to gauge the amount of task it’ll be, watching her swing low before being sent into the air and stumbling once she drops onto the platform. It’s sturdy, from what they can see. Only a few trickles of dried dirt float to the ground as a result of her boots landing on its face. Soon, she gives them a thumbs-up.

Charlotte laughs quietly, muttering, “The tact of an air horn,” in response to the hunter’s final comment.

“You like that air horn,” Sasha says without missing a beat, and the historian freezes in place.

“I do not.”

It’s not defensive. It’s not solid, either, or like she’s convinced herself of it. She knows she’s lying, and so do Sasha and Bayley. The brunette, in fact, outright snorts at the dismissal. Charlotte’s forehead creases, although there’s a faint smile hidden in her eyes.

“And what are you laughing about?”

Similar to Becky, the brunette takes her turn by tossing the hook onto the branch, giving it a tug, and leaping with an entertained “Holy shit” bouncing off the buildings’ walls before they watch her land safely. There, Becky gives her a firm nod and an impressed “Nice one, Softy” that makes Sasha beam.

When she turns around, however, she’s faced by Charlotte’s narrowing glare.

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You and Hot Head over there are two peas in a pod, and you know it.”

Her frown intensifies, this time her eyes widening.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The question breaks in the middle, cracking in forced defense, and it’s Sasha’s turn to use her need to escape the conversation as incentive to take the leap next. She ignores Charlotte’s squeaky inquisition ━ her refusal to believe it, too ━ and secures her grapple. Unlike their other partners, on the other hand, the mercenary takes her time to look back at Charlotte for a departing statement.

“Just don’t let your denial distract you too much.”

Again, the historian can’t get a word in edgewise before Sasha is gone into the swing, Charlotte imagining that her eyes are closed before it’s time to jump to the platform with their partners. Bayley grabs ahold of Sasha’s forearm and secures her onto the deck, the mercenary then brushing off her hands and walking away from the ledge. Bayley follows.

Charlotte’s boots shift against the stone roof. Time and time again, she attempts to clear her mind of the piling comments about her feelings for Becky. Hell, she even tries to push away the acceptance and agreement that they’re right.

Even if she and Becky are different in many ways, they definitely hold similarities when it comes to dealing with feelings, or straight-up making them known. Sure, the Irish woman has a tendency to push her emotions deep down into the pit of her stomach. She has a tendency to put up a front and pretend nothing’s nipping at her heels. At her _heart._ She even has a tendency to put a smile on her face when everyone can tell that she’s on the cusp of collapsing onto the floor. But she’s not alone in those traits, however terrible habits they may be.

Throughout this trip, Charlotte has been caring for Becky without being able to voice it. Without being able to lightheartedly own up to it solely because she hasn’t wanted to fall down the rabbit hole of opening her heart to someone who’s already shattered it from the inside out. And, honestly, she thought the first gunfight they made it through would be the end of her feelings resurfacing. The end of her heart longing to meet Becky’s again. Realistically, she’s only felt stronger emotions since that instance. Like they’d faced death together yet again and it made her realize what’s important. _Who’s_ important. Despite being pissed, despite wondering if the redhead was willing to trade her own well-being for the treasure and sometimes _still_ wondering about it… all Charlotte has wanted to do is make her true feelings known. To tell Becky what she’s thinking, why she’s thinking it, how she’s missed her more than she’s ever missed someone before. No matter how Becky has messed up in the past, no matter what they still need to bridge between them, she’s missed her. So damn much.

“Come on, Queen!”

She lifts her chin to see Becky waving to her, and the sight warrants a smile. Her playfulness surprises the blonde. What with the hunter’s normal go-to being a usually snarky “Your Majesty” to get beneath Charlotte’s skin.

At that, Charlotte takes her turn at the jump. Perhaps a metaphor, she muses. She swings the rope, attaches the hook to the tree limb, and pulls on it. A rustling sound comes from the tree as it bends, but it’s sturdy. Her fingers twitch against the fibers of the rope, adjusting her footing once, twice, three times before pushing off the stone and swinging. Wind brushes against her cheekbones and it feels like a rollercoaster, gliding downwards at a blurring speed before swooping up until the arc slows and it’s time to let go. Her heart beats fast as she’s in the air, but her boots thump against the boards like they’re supposed to.

Until she nearly falls backwards, that is. Luckily, Becky is there to repay her for the save earlier, and an arm wraps around her lower back to pull her further onto the platform with some shaky breaths.

“I gotcha,” Becky calms her with a cheekiness, her hand resting on the woman’s lower back.

She can tell Charlotte wants to respond. To thank her, or comment on the jump. To commend Becky for her quick reflexes, then bite her own tongue when it comes out wrong. There’s a lightness about her features, staring into brown eyes while they’re ignored by Sasha and Bayley. The corners of Charlotte’s mouth even twitch into a tiny smile, her head bowing, and Becky licks her lips in thought. Like she wants to say something, or excuse herself for holding onto Charlotte for so long. Still, her hand doesn’t move. Charlotte feels her fingers twitch against the flat of her back. She feels how they curl slightly, how the hunter’s nails scratch across the white fabric of her tank-top. Maybe absentmindedly, maybe deliberately. Charlotte’s breath halts.

Finally, Becky lets a tiny laugh tumble out from between her lips. She smiles while leaning forward, moving toward Charlotte’s left ear.

“Be careful.”

The whisper stuns the historian, but she tries her hardest not to react. When Becky backs up, there’s a newer, childish smirk on her face, and Charlotte challenges herself to not mirror it. To not react at all. To not look so done for. And, honestly, even if she wanted to, she can’t regain her composure fast enough to respond. Because, with two steps backward, Becky’s hand slides away from the fabric of Charlotte’s shirt, she looks her up and down, then turns away to walk past their other partners.

All the while, Charlotte is left speechless, standing in the same spot with a fast-beating heart.

Her breath is finally released.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least we're getting progress in the Charlynch section (finally, I groan), amiright? No, but seriously. Admitting things is the first step. They're working on it. Slowly but surely. Just don't get too comfortable, as I always say. (Which isn't a spoiler, but also we ARE practically in the middle of a miniature war). 
> 
> Becky's moment of vulnerability was kind of brief, I know, but by now I think we see that she's putting up a front. Especially considering her internal battle of not knowing if she should confront them about the militia or not. It's a can of worms, to put it lightly. Everything Becky says and does ties in with something bigger, and if you were to go back to Ch. 1, even, you'd find a lot of hints re: things you haven't been told yet. It's exciting for me as a writer, I have to say. 
> 
> Anywho. I feel the need to remind everyone that next chapter is the last before I break again. Things are starting to get more put-together which also means they're going to get more intense (and more intricate, writing-wise), so I'm gathering my bearings. It's odd writing this, honestly. I didn't imagine it would be so... stagey. Like baking a layered cake, I guess. We've gone from getting acquainted to a tropical setting, to gunfire, and it's leading to something more... fancy ??? Pirate-y ??? I don't know.
> 
> But yeah I'll stop talking now. No worries. Thank you (as always) for reading! Makes me feel nice about myself and what I'm doing here.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are...  
> ...the last chapter before I hide away again.
> 
> So, enjoy it.

MON., 3:31 P.M.

* * *

Their boots cautiously echo along the wooden platform with nowhere to go. With nowhere to drop, or to climb, or to shimmy across. With no help to reach their destination, no matter where they look.

Roughly speaking, the platform on which they landed is a simple, long stretch of deck. It’s approximately twenty-five feet in length, tucked into the side of one, white mansion on their left side. As if it’s a lackluster balcony for the large building, simply out in the open yet anchored into the pasty, three-windowed wall. On the far side, a blockage of vegetation prevents them from outright repelling down into the courtyard. In fact, the vines and overgrown shrubbery are so dense that they can hardly see down to the courtyard at all. Even if they were to lean over the edge and crane their necks out, their line of sight would be obstructed by multiple, tangled branches. Moreover, on the edge opposite to the building, shimmying down would only lead them to a mudslide sloping downward off the cliffside. Which, to say the least, isn’t where they want to go.

Quite frankly, if they want to reach anywhere near solid ground within this colony of attached buildings ━ including their prime, three-towered destination ━ then they’ll need to head through the attached house. After that, they’ll work their way downwards. One step at a time, Becky thinks.

“We have to go through here,” her fingertips brush along the chipping stone as they collect a chalky substance, almost petting the surface before brushing her hands together.

A puff of the white dust pollutes the air for a second or two. Brown eyes search the wall preventing them from moving forward, her focus squinting gradually. She notes its three windows, in particular. They’re green-tinted and twelve feet tall, grandiose ━ in a way ━ and practically shouting, “Behold!” like they were intended to display the building’s wealth above anything. Compared to the rest of Libertalia, she’d have to applaud the designer. These are certainly unmatched by anything they’ve seen so far.

Looks aren’t everything, though. Because, as she moves closer, she can hardly see inside. The glass is too uneven and practically frosted by years of weather pounding against its surface. Not to mention the vines that surround its frame and threaten to cover the rest of the window, with time. So much for a window’s core purpose of seeing through.

“Do you see any way in?” Bayley asks, forehead creased.

A sigh exits Becky’s nostrils. Her teeth worry at her bottom lip as she speed-walks to the edge of the deck where they landed from their swing, peeking around the corner. All she spots are those opened rooms, exposed to the fresh air, yet no way to reach them. She frowns at the lack of bold discovery. The expression lasts a millisecond, however, as it vacates her face once her eyes are widening in shock at the sound of glass breaking.

Mass confusion brings her to spin on her heel and return to her group with a readiness to protect them from whatever-it-is, only to relax in place when she watches Sasha flick additional pieces of glass off her elbow. Without looking up, the mercenary muses, “I see a way in,” in her patented, no-filter attitude and an additional airiness.

Bayley giggles at her lack of tact, whereas Becky’s eyebrows raise. That’s sure as hell better than being stuck on the platform, but she can’t get the words out when her heart is deflating from its spur-the-moment panic.

“That works,” she eventually admits, and Charlotte snickers at her obvious, mild distress.

She ignores the historian’s blatant amusement at her expense. Instead, she saunters over to the window and pokes her head through its newly formed gap, Sasha’s tactic clearing the majority of the pane without destroying it entirely. Because of that, she’s careful, staying on alert for stray shards holding onto the sides of the frame. Some even dangle above her neck as she examines the room’s innards.

Already, based on its musty smell ━ alone ━ she can tell it’s wholly covered in moss. Everything. The walls. The opened ceiling with additional shrubbery trickling in like it’s slime. The floor. Even the spare pieces of furniture, like a long, skinny-legged desk, a red armchair with stuffing oozing out, and other wooden features. From the inside, the window’s green tint is ten times as prominent, courtesy of the sun streaming through as it creates a glow and provides vision to see the dust floating through the air. Additionally, one could hazard a guess that the warmth provides the perfect conditions for more mold and moss to thrive, its moisture amplifying the scent that gets stuck in the space. Her nose scrunches, trying her best to ignore it while her eyes narrow.

On the right side of the room, specifically, most of the wall is missing. She knows it existed in the past, though nowadays it’s become a gaping archway that she can only see so far into. Still, she knows that’s where they’re traveling. It’s the only way through, after all.

“Definitely headin’ through here,” she peers over her shoulder without moving from the window. “I’ll help you all through so you don’t need to touch the edges of the window.”

No one protests. Even if they had, she’d ignore them and proceed, anyway. Despite most of the frame being clear of tiny shards and slivers, she’d rather not take a chance.

Becky gingerly places her right hand on the outside wall, as close as possible to the window frame without touching it. Her boot raises and clears the bottom portion of the window’s lining to the point of no possible dangers protruding out, just enough so they can slide against it without trouble.

A half-sigh, half-grunt exits her throat as she eases herself below the upper pane and into the room. Once inside, she feels the floor’s sturdiness against her feet, the lacking of creaks or sluggishness on the boards below, and she’s reassured that the building isn’t as brittle as one side seems. Then again, at least this room isn’t opened on the front-facing wall like its neighbors, she thinks. Less exposition to outer sources, that way. Even with a hole in the ceiling, very little precipitation has affected the space aside from its mossy blanket. Nothing too drastic.

“Single file, please,” Becky stretches her voice into an animated sense, Bayley getting a good chuckle out of it.

The brunette is first, Sasha second, and finally Charlotte. They each make it through without issue, without scrape or hindrance.

More than the others, Bayley takes her time getting accustomed to the new setting, adjusting her eyes to the fresh lighting and the outspoken greens that can be a tad blinding in comparison to the other, muted shades outside. Ironically enough, the indoor scenery is more vibrant. She hesitantly looks back and thanks Becky once she’s taking in the building’s interior, forgetting to beforehand. They’re all a bit focused on their ever-changing surroundings, Becky guesses.

While Bayley wanders near the window, opting to stick close, Sasha actually allows herself to be helped through. It surprises Becky, what with the mercenary normally reinforcing her independence. She makes sure not to portray that surprise outwardly, not wanting to put Sasha on the spot or make her revert back to her old ways. It’s nice for a change. Becky doesn’t feel as useless, this way. Once they’re hip to hip, the hunter gives her a nod, and Sasha mimics it.

Lastly, Charlotte is helped through the window. Becky offers both of her hands, the grasp latching onto them being soft with fingertips gliding against the skin of her palms before they’re secure. The tender friction causes the Irish woman to smile shakily, and Charlotte does the same. Although, once they’re toe to toe, Becky catches the glimmer of smugness within a cunning, blue-green gaze, like she’d been planning on doing something so minor to catch her attention. Payback for minutes ago, Becky would assume. Her mouth opens when facing Charlotte, her tongue wishing to say something in the oddest of fashions, but, ultimately, a smile is forced and she pretends that it’s nothing. The historian bows her head, however it’s mainly with sealed lips and shy features.

Boots against lumps of soft greenery and thick, wooden boards sound behind her. The echo of their soles, patted against the solid surface before their steps are muffled when they hit a patch of moss. Each of them examine the uncharted territory, closing in on the end of the room and minding the randomized cracks in the ground that become more frequent as they approach the broken, inner wall. Becky notes the fallen beam in the middle, likely bringing the wall’s entirety down with it, or perhaps falling after the structure collapsed, itself. She’s no engineer, but she supposes the two events are likely related if not one in the same.

Nevertheless, she walks at the forefront of her group. Her eyes scan the hole and its shadowy contents, her boots sliding to the edge of the room’s boards and staring down the glimmery surface of a mudslide. It’s steep, from what they can tell, and it leads down to a lower level with the thick, brown substance waterfalling out from below the boards they stand on. Becky makes a face. When she decided that they had to reach the ground somehow, this wasn’t what she had in mind. Her lips purse and she breathes out, making a funny noise.

“Let me guess,” Sasha deadpans. “We’re taking another mudslide trip.”

Always the voice of enthusiasm. Not to say Becky doesn’t agree with her blasé delivery.

“Good guess,” Becky smirks. “Let’s hope Avery’s treasure is your prize.”

The mercenary’s responding laugh is more like an exhale than anything, but she nods reluctantly. Becky takes it as collective acceptance from her teammates, no one bothering to question it or suggest an alternative route. “Acceptance” being more like an unannounced “Let’s get this over with.”

Becky turns back to the obstacle, shaking her own apprehension away before muttering, “Here goes nothing,” while dropping onto it.

She picks up speed faster than expected against the slick yet lumpy mud. It’s more difficult than previous slides when she can’t see anything but the incoming ground, but she tries her hardest to steer herself. All the while, thick goop splatters along her skin, predominantly coating her elbows when she attempts to keep her hands clean. Her face contorts in the process, vision blurring due to the slide’s inertia, and the stone floor brightens as it comes into closer view. Becky’s roughly ten feet away when she bends her legs and waits for the impact, eyes squinting before she feels the solid stone beneath her feet. The quickened pace causes her to fly forward a bit once she moves to stand up right away, needing to catch herself but managing with a period of forced balancing when she plants her right boot against the ground and her hand in front of it.

“Ew,” she makes a gross face while brushing her elbows and forearms against the thighs of her camo pants, keeping her hands away from the substance.

While she tidies herself, her three partners find themselves in a mutual battle with the mudslide. Bayley is first of the three, once again getting the most joy out of it until she nearly face-plants at the end. Fortunately, Becky catches onto her overwhelming speed and holds her up once it gets the best of her, grabbing onto the brunette’s forearm with a firm grip until she’s completely upright.

“Thanks,” it comes through an airy breath, relieved to be saved.

Becky nearly tells her it’s the start of monumental payback for saving her own skin back on the battlefield, but she leaves the words unspoken. The current scenario pales in comparison to what transpired back there, and it’d be a silly thing to say. Even if Bayley would understand it’s a joke. In Becky’s mind, it’s not something to play about. It’s not something to even mention unless she’s dedicated to being serious about it. To acknowledge that she wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for Bayley. There’s no other way to put it, either; she certainly would _not_ be here if it wasn’t for the woman who walks away with a skip in her step and a hum in her throat. Softy is a hero. Becky gives her a tiny smile, then turns away.

Nearby, the brunette grimaces at the gritty feeling of mud against her torso and splattered against her cheeks like she was just involved in a pig-pen fight. She knew it’d happen, too. While sliding, she could feel her shirt become untucked by the friction of her body sliding down the hill, lifting up and allowing the substance to flick against her back, sides, and some of the lifted garment. At one point in particular, her boots slapped against the ground and flung a generous amount of splatter onto her face, as well. That’s what bothers her the most, if you were to ask. She scrunches her nose at the tightening feeling, the sensation of mud drying into flaking dirt. Like a liquid mask for your pores, though she didn’t plan for it.

Her eyes search the area for nothing in particular. At the top of the mudslide, Charlotte and Sasha discuss something unknown through muffled voices. Bayley looks up. She remembers that Sasha still has rags in her backpack, all ready to use and cleaned from when she was injured. Ready to clean the mud off her face and away from her eyes. Then again, it’s not something she’d like to waste them for. Living off the land requires building an impervious mindset to uncontrollable outcomes, right? Besides, she should be used to the feeling of gritty, sandy, muddy layers upon her skin. They’ve dealt with numerous, yucky obstacles, by now.

Contrary to what she tells herself, Bayley grits her teeth while looking down at her outfit. She keeps her arms away from her torso, boxy and awkwardly postured as she stands near the base of the mudslide. However, that stiffened, disgusted body language lightens and slumps once she detects the giant gap of clean shirt just beneath her chest. The giant gap of makeshift cloth that can clean her face in an instant. Her own rag. In fact, she appears so relieved that it’s nearly matched by an exhaled “Oh, thank goodness.” Bayley snickers at the internal sigh, quietly and not enough to be noticed by Becky who, even so, calls up to Sasha and Charlotte.

“Take your time, up there. We’ll just continue without you slow-pokes.”

“Oh, bite me,” the mercenary snarks, taking her turn at the mudslide.

Ignoring her teammates, Bayley goes about her cleaning. She slips her hands below her shirt and bunches the hem upwards, pulling most of the fabric with it. The clean patch of garment is rubbed against her face, beneath her eyes and over her nose. Still, the same humming comes from her throat as she proceeds, Sasha hearing the sound and laughing while turning around to see what she’s doing, only to be frozen up by the sight.

She blinks, rapidly tearing her eyes away from Bayley’s exposed, toned midsection and the brief glimpse of her grey sports bra. Her abs, even more so, getting the mercenary’s attention before she’s focusing elsewhere with sealed lips. _Trying_ to focus elsewhere, at least.

Although she’d never deny Bayley’s overall appeal in every sense of the word, it never occured to Sasha how that appeal could amplify. How its previous standing could become so lesser to a new discovery. To a new aspect of the navigator. Ever since the beginning, there’s been an unspoken attraction between them. No question about it. But, Sasha will admit, she’s been zoned in on everything mental and emotional up until now. She’s been reveling in the fresh mindset that she’s acquired, and that ━ sometimes begrudging ━ happiness. The happiness she’d so-valiantly fought off for years upon years, that she’d put up a wall against, only to have that wall get decimated by Bayley in an instant. She’s been focusing on the fact that they’re so opposite, yet overwhelmingly compatible, like puzzle pieces. How she’s so broken whereas Bayley is put together ━ from what she’s shared, that is. How the brunette is willing to be her guiding light, in a way, or bring out the kinder parts of her that have been covered in dust for as long as she can remember. Maybe even non-existent until she met Bayley in that Madagascan airport.

And none of that is to say there hasn’t been a drop of physical attraction. Sasha sure as hell can’t escape those bright eyes. That smile. Those silly, up-to-no-good looks that Bayley gives when she knows she’s grinding against the mercenary’s resolve. Causing it to crumble, to wither away until Sasha is left as soft as Bayley is. On the other hand, she _will_ say that Bayley’s psychique certainly is a pleasant surprise. One she hadn’t thought of before, but now won’t _stop_ thinking about.

The absentmindedness of Bayley’s actions. The lack of intention. How casual she is to simply lift her shirt and show off her smooth skin. Her smooth, toned skin. Her smooth, toned abs.

She clears her throat and seals her lips, looking down at her boots. Though, after a mere second, she can’t help herself, and instead uses her peripherals.

Considering how long it’s taking Bayley to finish up, Sasha wonders if she’s done it purposely. If she thought of how close they’ve gotten, and how she should push the boundaries. How she should test Sasha’s will, or that resolve that she so-often wants to shatter into a million pieces.

She _must’ve_ done it purposely, Sasha thinks while biting the tip of her tongue. Her face morphs into that of conflict, turning away from the sight. Unfortunately for the mercenary, her head turns in the direction of Becky, and that’s no better. Boy, does she look smug. Standing there with her arms crossed, eyebrows bouncing, cheeks tight in a big, trickster-like grin. Not to mention the snicker that she ushers out of her nostrils, followed by a flat hum. An all-too-knowing display that Sasha rolls her eyes at. She refuses to confirm Becky’s suspicions, even if Sasha knows she’s been caught red-handed.

In the end, she’s forced to walk away. That’s when Bayley finally ends her round of tidying up, and the garment falls back into place with the brunette giving it a cute shrug. Like nothing ever happened, and she missed the tension of her own fault.

Becky chuckles.

Next to her, Charlotte follows suit and ends her short spurt of cleaning. Becky notices her passiveness, how the historian merely brushes her hands free of dirt and mud before running her fingers through her hair to make it fall nicely. Overall, she looks accepting of the otherwise disgusting feeling. The mud staining her clothes, especially her white tank-top. Her jeans. Her boots. She clearly doesn’t care, shrugging it off and instead moving around the space with eyes ready to study the new world around them. Charlotte looks used to it, in total.

Actually, Becky very clearly remembers the historian’s unbothered nature quite well. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t find it the least bit attractive. Years back, finding out that Charlotte wasn’t the prissy, _“no deal”_ type in regards to down-and-dirty situations stunned her, but made her raise her eyebrows in good impression. It also made her smirk, then level the historian with an up-and-down look-over. Charlotte watched, at the time, eyes narrowed with a grin of her own. A mutual attraction, of sorts.

Currently, Becky smiles at the memory, and, once again, she’s caught by the tall blonde clouding her mind. Charlotte tilts her head to the side in question, causing the redhead to seal her lips and walk past the group to find where they’re heading next. _Focus,_ she stresses at herself. Behind her, the historian’s inquisitive yet knowing grin from years ago makes a return, but she follows the group.

Feet away, Becky picks up on their path. It’s the only option in the room, being an adjacent archway leading to a hallway, then into a room. Her lips unseal in the process of her eyes narrowing, curious of the future setting. Already, hardly a step into the elongated hallway, she can tell that the impending space is more regal in appearance. Her evidence: the edge of a banister, or what she presumes is a banister. Then, the edge of a staircase comes into view.

An isolated hum emanates from her throat. Without notification, she travels down the stone corridor. The footsteps behind her remain steady until they cross over the room’s threshold, gradually slowing as Becky’s do.

Instantly, they’re on the left side of a grand hall. Judging by the large, wooden door spanning at least twenty feet upwards, stationed in the center of the front wall, the room likely served as the establishment’s main entrance. Across from the door is a grand staircase, stretching all the way to the back of the room and heading upwards with red carpet along dark, polished wood of thirty or so steps. There’s a platform at the top of it, splitting left and right into two, winged sections of balcony that lead to various, wooden doors of usual size. Above the room’s midpoint is a golden chandelier, hanging down from the tall ceiling by a thick chain until its candelabra light sources branch off in different, curved directions. Like an upside-down Weeping Willow. As spotted earlier, the rails of the staircase end in sturdy banisters, decorated and prominent to captivate attention. Curved, thick, pillar-like objects that swirl inward until they blend together into a single stump on each side of the staircase’s widest step. Amongst the hall’s floor are sporadically placed desks that also line the walkway up to the stairs, their accompanying seats tipped onto their sides in some cases. The women avoid them as they wander the grounds, watching their footing while also marinating in their newest wave of amazement. Overall, it looks less like a living room, and more like a reception area. A looser form of the concept, at least. Simply more business-oriented, perhaps.

Despite the years of age, everything looks virtually untouched. Unlike most other buildings, the ceiling is still intact, and it keeps everything pristine. Especially the two windows that frame the large, focal-point of a door, clear enough to see out of aside from the fact that they’re at least ten feet off the ground. Inside the room, the dust is settled, unseen within the air yet only detected upon each undisturbed surface with a thick layer of grey. Even the red carpet is faded under its screen, but still red, nonetheless. Still important-looking. _Wealthy,_ moreover. Evidently, they paid more attention to detail in this building than most others.

Becky turns her head in each direction. She twists in place for another ten seconds, though eventually wanders away from her enthralled friends. While they mutter amongst themselves, she searches for an exit, and it soon comes in the form of an opening tucked into a side hall. It’s behind multiple stacks of crates, likely a blown hole into the wall instead of a nice archway like the one they just crossed beneath. Still, it delivers a swarm of natural light and what seems like a path to the front courtyard, and that’s where they’re heading. They’re almost there. The treasure hunter breathes in with an urge of encouragement.

“Anyone else get the feeling this wasn’t a residential district?”

She turns to see Sasha waiting for an answer, the historian nodding slowly.

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that, too,” comes the whisper, astounded by the staircase. “Especially with this place.”

“Administration building?” Bayley theorizes aloud. “It makes sense. Large entrance,” she gestures to the massive door. “Central building to the whole enchilada. Would’ve been imperative to pass through.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” the redhead’s voice is scratchy, but she accepts the idea. “This way,” she sideways nods toward the natural light. “The courtyard’s just outside.”

With a short wave of hesitation ━ with a short wave of not wanting to leave the beautiful stairwell ━ they duck through a makeshift hallway between a wall and a tall line of crates. They’re in no particular order, stacked to stay upright and covered in water at the tops as they vacate the building. There’s still a short stretch to go until they’re exiting the wall of boxes, only to see more stacks of rubble around. Misplaced, toppled over, blown around the area for absolutely no reason.

No reason, that is, until their sight is free and able to study the open courtyard in front of them where their confusion returns tenfold. There, they wish they were merely staring at crates and wondering their usage. Instead, there, they get their answer.

“What the fuck...?” it’s whispered with dread and disbelief, Becky’s lips remaining parted as they all stand in a line and observe what’s displayed.

Strewn along the dirt courtyard of approximately fifty yards in length, dozens upon dozens of skeletons and stray bones clutter the perimeter. A graveyard, it could be called, built above the ground and exposed to outsiders. Some are in heaps piled to Becky’s height, some are thrown against the lone statue in the middle of the yard, and others randomly lie across the dirt like they were crawling to take refuge somewhere. Swords peg a handful of them to the ground, lodged into their rib cages and slicing part of their bone. Another two or three skulls have daggers stuck in their eye sockets, rolled away from the rest of their body. Nearby, there are occasional, metal shields, along with those various stones, pieces of wood, anything else to clutter the space. Like they were preparing for battle, throwing everything they had in the open so they could create a blockade.

Everywhere they walk, they’ll have to step over some sort of soulless entity, along with misplaced bones of every degree. Of every body part. Of every presumable civilian that got caught up in their misfortune. Becky’s forehead creases, thinking back to the map within the bunker they stumbled upon. A breath exits her throat, murmuring, “My God,” as everyone else looks on with solemn eyes.

A lump forms in Bayley’s throat as she forgets to blink. In fact, she’s stuck in place for an extended moment of time, like the world stopped spinning and everything stuck when she noticed the closest skeleton only three feet from where she stands next to Sasha. The silence around them doesn’t help the eeriness, either. The lack of chirping birds. The lack of wind to rustle the foliage. The lack of running water to muffle her own, overrunning thoughts. Everything is still. Dead with the forgotten individuals in front of the foursome.

Even as she’s witnessed life being taken right in front of her, even as _she’s_ been the one to take life, this clenches her heart more than the carnage they conquered earlier. Here, she has no idea what happened. That dreaded unknown. She has no idea if these people were innocent, compared to the men who attacked their group and got what they deserved. She and her friends fought back in self defense. These poor entities? She has not an inkling of their story. Not a drip of imagination, other than the flashes of hardships with those sharpened swords being the prime evidence. For all she knows, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. For all she knows, they were also retaliating in self defense.

And, come to think of it, even before heading on this trip, skeletons have always rubbed her the wrong way. What they stand for, what they result from. Even in science class, she could never focus on anatomy, but more so the knowledge that, on a daily basis, that’s all we are. A brain within your skull. A heart within your ribcage. Your organs, protected by bone. It’s a carrying case. A protection you cannot be without. Forever, skeletons have made her squint one eye in dismay. Seeing them in person is even less of a thrill. And, right now, in person, the group stares at multiple bodies with her mind running on fumes. They stare at that left-behind armor shed by a mass amount of people who, for whatever reason, dropped dead here.

Her throat bobs when she swallows her terror, a hollow breath tripping from her lips. Her knees wobble on the inside, though she still doesn’t move. Not until the ringing in her ears catches up to her so much that she jumps as if she’s been jolted back to reality, and she grabs for Sasha’s wrist with her body stiffening.

The mercenary notices her fearful eyes, the grip on her upper hand, how Bayley refuses to look at her and instead studies the depiction of past death and its eventual outcome. What it leaves behind, in the grand scheme of things. For whatever reason, the brunette isn’t a fan of skeletons, in particular. She can tell. It’s the only thing that’s thus far shaken her to the point of appearing as fragile as the rest of them have looked at one point or another.

In light of not knowing, Sasha doesn’t question it. She doesn’t ask why they’re so off-putting to Bayley, nor does she outright wonder if their encounter with the younger skeleton on the first island only ruined the brunette’s perception. She decides to only think about it, but shakes it from her mind, anyway. Right now, she should focus on Bayley.

With that in mind, Sasha wiggles her wrist free of Bayley’s grasp with desire to rearrange their hands. However, to the other woman, it appears as though Sasha is rejecting the idea of comforting her. Rejecting the idea of being her rock, after everything they’ve gone through. Like she can’t be that source of security, for whatever reason. For a moment, she panics and her head goes to bow in the sulking of that rejection. She’s about to crawl back into her shell, about to tell herself to toughen up and not depend on anyone else in the face of something that shouldn’t bother her as much as it does.

She’s about to brace herself further, but, in actuality, she can’t fully let that absurd rejection creep up her throat and spread through her limbs. Not when Sasha takes a chance and brushes her palm past Bayley’s with a detected tenderness, ultimately entwining their fingers.

Comfort for Bayley, and hidden motives for her own heart. Sasha has to hide the smile on her face, pushing her acute happiness into the back of her mind and leaning close to the navigator’s ear to ask, “You good?”

Bayley nods as much as she can.

“Stay close,” Sasha mutters, and they begin to walk with cautious steps.

Like usual, the treasure hunter leads them, crossing over the initial, horizontal skeleton. His jaw is open, staring at them as they walk by. Charlotte frowns, but ignores the bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach. Behind her, Bayley’s posture stiffens as her body ━ clad with Sasha’s ━ maneuvers around the poor soul, but she feels a soothing thumb rub along hers. It lets her know that Sasha is willing to keep calm for the both of them, and Bayley exhales.

Even Becky’s psyche throbs at the scene. It’s not that it’s gorey like what they’ve faced. It lacks the blood, the glassy eyes of victims, the metallic scent that fills the air. But, where it lacks those aspects, it gains a sense of desolation. That’s no better. The scarce humanity. No eyes, just darkness within sockets. No scents at all, nor sounds, no movement. Nothing to let them know when it happened, or why it happened, or how it happened. Though, then again, the swords give them a few hints. No matter what, unlike graphic illustrations and encounters like they’ve faced today, it brings about the historical, imaginative events that inevitably lead to this massacre. And it’s just that: a massacre. They can’t even count how many skeletons are crowding the space, but some are attached literally by the hip, tangled up and toppled over each other with those swords keeping them stuck against the dirt like a toothpick through one’s own sandwich. Some wear equipment, though most are barren, being picked clean until their off-white color turned brownish through the dry air competing with the periodic moisture.

“A war took place here,” for the first time in the area, Charlotte’s voice is heard.

She’s crouched down to look at one particular skeleton. He’s sat up, pressed against the lone statue in the middle of the courtyard. Like someone propped him up and placed him there, intentionally. Or maybe he crawled there, leaned his head back, and passed on. Charlotte frowns, needing to look away.

“That doesn’t make sense, though,” Becky weakly argues, and the historian slowly stands up. “I’m not disagreeing with you, but...” her shoulders tighten before slumping in an odd shrug. “They were all one colony.”

“A civil war?” the blonde tilts her head to the side.

“But why?” Sasha is next to question it, brushing against Bayley’s shoulder. “Why go through all the trouble of making this pirate-inclusive, hidden city to get _away_ from oppression, just to fight and war until the end? Even _I_ don’t understand that, and I was raised on war.”

This time, Becky is at a loss for words as her cheeks puff and she makes a funny sound with her lips. As always, they’ve collected more questions than they have answers. Unlike other times, she’s having difficulty shoving those inquisitions and mounting theories into the crooks of her brain in order to get the job done. Recently, everything is starting to look so tangled, so suspicious and unnerving that she can’t escape the soreness in her throat that begins to surface again. It’s like she’s being choked for the second time, and her features twist in a twinge of pain that Charlotte detects. Similar to before, she doesn’t mention it. Even if she tried, her tongue wouldn’t cooperate. She’s just too floored by the mass gravesite they tread through.

Becky walks in a straight line, not wanting to dwell on the lifeless bodies any longer than necessary. Although, once her eyes flicker to the left, she notes more skeletons with suits of armor and metal protection among their chests. Clearly, it didn’t protect them as much as they wished, having weapons thrown through their skulls, or the scarce unguarded space on their sides. They’re more so decorative chestplates than anything, helmets rolled nearby, and those shields lie on the ground with no owner to pick them up again.

Whatever the fight was for, it completely decimated everyone along these grounds. They certainly fought to the death, whoever they were against and whatever their motive was. It’s sad, Becky decides, and only sums up the adventure they’re on. What they’ve come for, yet what they’ve been met with. More questions than answers, confusion, and ultimately that stirring danger. That militia that stalks them like they’re sitting ducks.

Bittersweet is the sight of the building they’d set out to find, the entrance being at the far end of the courtyard. She tries to stay lighthearted, however, particularly due to hearing Sasha’s comforting mutters of “We’re almost inside,” “Don’t look at them,” and a joking remark of “Just focus on your bad leg.”

The brunette snickers, and Becky grins at the sound.

Her expression is wiped away as she skips up the four, elongated, stone steps that lead to a platform overlooked by another, large archway. At the top of the stone slab, their group is welcomed by a final piece of the war: a broken-down, wooden cart with Avery’s sigil sewn into a red, tattered flag. Like a calling card. The signal of victory, yet still broken apart. Still strained. Pressed against the stone wall of the building, right in front of the tunnel where they’ll pass through. Forgotten there, and exposed to the Earth’s elements.

Four sets of eyes follow the curve of the tall, rounded archway as they’re standing below it. With one step forward, they know that they’ll undoubtedly be passing into a new realm. A new realm with probable surprises, and an additional sense of caution. Hesitation, too. Who knows what they’ll find behind the door that’s stationed at the other end of the long hallway down which they stare. More skeletons? Booby traps? Treasure? Absolutely nothing?

All they know is that, whatever the door brings, they’ll be stepping into a wealthier realm, if nothing else. The previous building was enough of a hint. Moreover, previously unnoticed are the three, towering statues on each side of the hallway, confirming the notion of higher value in this district. There are miniature windows between each statue, all leading to the wooden and gold-encrusted door. On the ground is a red-carpeted runner beneath their boots, filthy with an assortment of stains, however still royal in appearance. As for the statutes, themselves, they’re covered in moss with chips here and there, but still so beautiful. Each is a similar depiction of an angel-like woman holding the resemblance of serving platters, within each being a basin where they previously kept fire to light the aisle. Overall, it’s immaculate.

“I hope their personal architect got his fair share,” Becky jokes. “This is impressive.”

No one responds, though she wasn’t seeking conversation. Either way, they reach the door within five more feet, finding a lever tucked into the wall. Becky presumes it belongs to the door, and, at this point, she’s tired of pausing to drum up suspense. After all, there aren’t any door knobs, nor other mechanisms to use. So, without hesitation or a mere glance at her partners, she grasps its golden end and pulls.

A thunk is heard, inviting a scraping sound within the wall. But that’s where it stops. Because, much like the previous day, the door lifts a single foot or so from the ground before stopping, then filling the air with the noise of metal against metal. It grinds on their nerves as much as it grinds against itself, but the Irish woman doesn’t show her irritation. Instead, she grunts, then moves to the door’s right side before turning to her teammates. With her chin lifted, she notices the entwined fingers of Bayley and Sasha, how their hands are so-perfectly woven together without remorse. How content they look, even if they’re not staring back at her. She commends the gesture without making it known with a verbal mention or severe reaction, choosing to flash the pair a diluted smile before nodding to the historian.

“Char, can you…?”

It takes her by surprise, plus the added nickname, but also causes her to look at Sasha who’s previously helped Becky in every case. Suddenly, she understands. The mercenary is mostly focused on Bayley, searching her profile as if she’s waiting for the brunette to turn to her. Bayley, on the other hand, examines the statues. Both completely ignoring the task at hand. Charlotte smiles at them, soon accepting the request and raising the door with Becky after their normal three-count.

The door’s thumping gains their partners’ attention, and the two shuffle beneath the wood before Becky allows Charlotte to do the same. The tall blonde ducks her head under the door’s bottom, just barely holding onto the barrier while doing so until she can get a firmer grip on it. She returns the favor, the redhead slinking beneath and resuming her position so they can ease it down to the ground. At their teamwork, they share a nod and a mirrored smile.

Becky takes a breath, ready to turn around and see what they’re working with. She’s ready to delve into the interior of the three-towered building, ready to see what they crossed all of Libertalia to find. What they risked their necks for. But what she ultimately sees before them is both exquisite and heartbreaking. Nothing short of grandiose, but also wretched. She feels her shoulders droop.

The place is absolutely ransacked. A gymnasium-sized room full of rows of wooden shelves, resembling bookcases, with their drawers thrown open and empty. Emphasis on “thrown.” Some of the shelves are lopsided, and, otherwise, a few of the bookcase-like pieces of furniture are even toppled onto their sides. By force, from what she can tell. There are four, lengthy rows of them. They stretch across the room, being the only objects to clutter the dusty, stone floor. Even more shelves and drawers are built into the ornate, wooden walls of the space, and rolled papers spill out of three or four of them. If the outside was a mess resulted of war, this is a mess resulted of an extreme search. One could even guess it was a raid, ending in a massive battle. But why? And between whom? The colonists? The founders?

Becky squints, looking around as her team keeps their chins raised in observance. As far as exquisite scenery goes, this takes the cake. Strips of gold line each decorative pillar built into the walls, even emphasizing the archway that trims the top of the doorframe. The ceiling is rounded, being fifty, sixty, or seventy feet tall at its highest point, and it’s decorated with a portrait of Avery and his fellow founders, a map of the island in the background. It resembles a Victorian style, its colors pale yet highly detailed in a way that looks like a camera snapped the picture and it was printed out. Certainly a display of craftsmanship and precision. It’s not the only picture in the room, however, as five or so large, framed portraits are lined against each of the two, longer walls. All at least ten feet tall, excluding the frame. All sitting below their own, high, fancy window with a rounded top, their lids nearly touching the beginning of the ceiling’s expansive portrait.

The redhead’s attention stays zoned in on the multiple, framed pictures. They’re of Libertalia’s founders. Avery’s buddies. His followers, in some sense. But that’s not the most interesting part of their depiction. Because across each founder’s face is the word _“THIEF”_ painted in grey, the substance dripping thickly down the frame’s contents but still clear enough to decipher. Clear enough to get the point across.

 _THIEF. THIEF. THIEF._ On every painting. _THIEF._

She looks this way and that, studying each representation of the founders with a shaky laugh coming from her throat. More baffled than anything. Her head shakes and she begins to walk around, Sasha and Bayley sticking together while they do the same, and Charlotte going on the opposite side of the bookcases. Their footsteps blend, but they’re slow and precise. Sounding hollow, like they’re walking on polished wood with heavy soles.

The dust upon the ground is mixed with dirt, likely seeping in from the gap on the right side of the ceiling that streams sunlight into the mansion. Becky lifts her eyes to look at the erosion, how leaves have climbed into the space to cover a good amount of the gold-encrusted pillars on that side of the room. They’re even patterned against the floor, almost to the point of looking like grass is growing through the stone. It’s another element of beauty, though probably not intended by Avery, himself.

 _Speaking of Avery,_ she snickers in thought. Coming to a halt, she finds the head of his statue at her feet. Becky arches an eyebrow, looking around for his body and eventually finding it embedded into the wall at the far end of the room. Set on a pillar for all to see. The focal-point, of course.

Charlotte approaches as the hunter puts her hands on her hips, brown eyes slowly locking with an ocean color while the proximity between them deliberately slims down. The redhead licks her lips, then points to the statue head.

“Looks like he didn’t just lose his mind,” she smirks at her own joke.

Charlotte tries to suppress her smile but can’t help it, rolling her eyes half-heartedly and chuckling. Becky grins at the quiet sound and her reaction, sealing her lips before opting to comment on it.

“See, trying hard _sometimes_ works,” her eyes drift away shyly and, in that moment, Charlotte admires her.

She admires the way Becky pretends she’s not all too invested in the conversation. How she’s predominantly focused on the structures around them, the stories the room could tell, so forth. How she’s seemingly ignoring the reddened band that remains blotchy across her throat, not to mention what the mark resulted from, even if Charlotte can’t ignore it equally so. The historian’s heart falters, but she alternatively focuses on her adoration for the woman. Her unshaken care and affection, also known as what’s driven her to continue on this trip.

She _tries_ focusing on it, at least, but her mind slips little by little. Soon, a feeling of guilt diminishes her faint smile within time. The expression gradually gets replaced with her tongue pressing to her inner cheek in self-directed irritation. Mainly derived from what she said earlier, beyond their banter back in the beginning of Libertalia. She regrets her outburst as a result of the first gunfight. She regrets how she handled her own distress, her own synthetic anger directed at Becky because she _wanted_ it to be. She regrets how she forced herself to believe ━ even for an isolated moment ━ that Becky is immorally selfish, ready to risk their lives for the sake of the hunt. No matter if she can forgive the Irish woman or not for her sense of self-worth, or lack thereof… it doesn’t mean she has to lash out. Communication is best, and she knows it. She’s been preaching it to herself for so long, but has yet to practice it. Everything needs a starting point, though, right?

Giving herself a tiny nod, she takes a few steps closer, standing a mere two feet away from Becky who wonders what’s up.

“I overreacted earlier,” Charlotte suddenly confesses. “When we first saw those men...” her mouth opens and closes as she turns away. “After that, too. When I basically implied you’d risk my safety just to finish this whole thing. I was seeing red, at the time. Not at you necessarily, but…” she exhales, “at the situation. I shouldn’t have aimed low. I, um… I’m sorry.”

Becky stares at her. She remains silent. In her mind, the voices clamor loudly. They want to say it’s okay. To say that an apology isn’t even necessary. It’s a human’s natural instinct to put their defenses up before being able to mindfully think or comprehend another’s actions. She’s about to say those things, too. All of them. Sadly, in an uncanny summary of their past conversations, they’re interrupted. She doesn’t even have time to react to Charlotte’s apology, in the end.

“Guys, come here.”

From the immediate look on Charlotte’s face, the way her eyes close and her chin lowers, Becky can tell that she’s tired of being interrupted. She feels it, just the same, but this time she’s the one giving the historian a look that says they can talk about it later. Charlotte shifts her jaw, and Becky gives her a sweeter smile, then a nod toward where they’ve been called.

The blonde begrudgingly follows, however primarily stuck in her head and wishing to express herself more. That’s not even the tip of what she wished to say to Becky. She’s been drowning in her thoughts since she blew up on the woman, and all she wants to do is sit down, explain herself, and start over. Start this trip over, start their relationship over. Everything, truly. It’s starting to suffocate her, in all sincerity. Although she’s been trying her hardest to enjoy herself since they stumbled into Libertalia, it’s hard to push away the thought that Becky, in any way, resents her. And she knows that, on Becky’s side of things, she thinks the same of Charlotte. By all means, Charlotte hasn’t done anything to convince her otherwise. All she’s done is bitch at her, or bring up past attitude that hardly pertains to how she feels currently.

She sighs through her nose, but her attention is caught by Sasha flipping a coin to Becky who has to act with fast reflexes to catch it.

Charlotte stands next to her, coin between two fingers as brown eyes widen and Becky raises her focus to Sasha in dumbfoundedness. The mercenary appears smug, and so does Bayley.

“This has Avery’s sigil on it,” it’s rapidfire, Becky’s mouth shaped into a smile of disbelief.

She continues to look between a cocky Sasha who raises her eyebrows, and the coin, itself. Her free hand’s finger taps against it, feeling the beveled contours of the sideways skull and the crossbones beneath. The coin isn’t completely round, and it’s bumpy on its edges. A shoddy job of craftsmanship, but heavy as ever. Realization creeps into her bloodstream.

“It’s real,” she exhales, eyes unblinking. “Real gold.”

“Yeah, it is,” Sasha nods, her remark matter-of-factly.

“The treasure was here,” Bayley adds with a beaming smile.

“He must’ve melted down the gold and minted his own currency,” Charlotte speaks more so to herself, leaning close to Becky to observe the coin as their shoulders brush.

Her fingers reach to touch it, Becky moving even closer to the historian as she lifts her head to look around the room. Sasha does the same, musing, “So, if this is _—presumably—_ the treasury, then where is the treasure now?”

“That’s the million-dollar question,” the brunette responds, and Sasha grunts.

“Four-hundred million.”

“Much more than that,” Charlotte says with a lightness.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Ha- _ha,_ can’t be sore about that forever, lass,” Becky’s amusement is strong, and they all pause before her face contorts in thought.

She gives the coin to Charlotte to hold.

“Let’s run through this,” moving away, the hunter appears frazzled, speaking with hand motions as her partners stand in a line. “Entertain me for a second. We know what happened out there, or—well—we have a good argument that there was some battle,” she begins to pace.

“Amongst themselves.”

“Yes,” Becky stops for a moment, pointing at Sasha, then starts again, “but was it... only the colonists?”

They fall silent, but Charlotte thinks the most. Hesitation follows the inquisition, but she soon grasps onto what Becky is heading toward.

“The skeletons right outside were wearing decorative armor. That’d be a sign of high honor. Soldiers.”

“And soldiers work for...?” her smile grows when the historian catches on.

“Royalty.”

“Or _founders.”_

There’s a slight epiphany in the air, Becky amused and forming a rant.

“See those paintings?” she shuffles a few feet to the left, pointing up at both, long sides of the room. “The founders. All marked with the word ‘thief.’ Nothing else. No other word. Not ‘murderer,’ not ‘tyrant.’ All the same. ‘ _Thief.’”_

“The colonists were trying to take back what’s theirs,” Charlotte fills in the blank, chin tilted upwards in a realization that comes from staring at the paintings.

“It wasn’t here when they busted in, though. These guys...” she gestures to the paintings, constructing a new thought. “I’m sure they had that ruse put together from the very beginning.”

“Create a trusting, wealthy utopia… reap the benefits,” the blonde lets it sink in.

“Pirates will be pirates,” Sasha concludes.

Becky smirks at the phrase, offering a dark chuckle to the concept while locking her fingers behind her head. She breathes out at the gist of it all, the whole plan and all its moving parts. How the map on the bunker’s wall pointed to this building, likely constructing their plan of attack. Their plan of action to snatch back their gold, halted by Avery’s soldiers.

Likewise, everyone soaks in the astounding discovery. Everyone except for Bayley, that is.

“I know where they moved it.”

Becky’s hands drop from her head, slapping back at her sides.

“Come again?”

“Look up,” the brunette points, and they all do as they’re told, moving enough to see the painting atop with its map behind Avery and the other founders. “We’re there, at the treasury,” Bayley narrates. “Now, look north-east. It’s the only other location on the map.”

“New Devon,” Becky reads it through a whisper.

“Avery was from Devon—”

“—England,” the Irish woman finishes Charlotte’s sentence, and they look at each other through in-sync amazement.

“I wonder if the mural’s accurate,” Bayley thinks, breaking the tension. “Those buildings are massive.”

 _“Please,_ do you really think a pirate would want to downplay his property?” Sasha side-eyes their navigator, and Bayley laughs.

“I’ll give you that.”

Becky examines the map closer. Its shape, the included landmarks, the multiple houses. A slow smile curves her mouth.

“Each mansion has its own sigil,” she notices. “That’s where the bastards lived.”

“Yeah, on the total opposite side of the mountains. Surrounded by a stone wall, too. Bet it’s a bit taller than a picket-fence.”

She can feel their eyes on her. Waiting for their next move, their next plan of attack. She knows the room’s mood has swiftly changed, becoming excitable and anxious to follow the trail. Now that they know what they’re looking for, now that they have a new direction, the suspense is picking up, and her team is chomping at the bit. In a way, she’s proud of their enthusiasm. This is all she could’ve asked for, and it’s all she’s wanted since they arrived. Teamwork, and collective excitement. Becky smiles, then squints her eyes while turning to the hole in the ceiling.

Beyond its opening, she sees the tallest tower built into the side of the building, but there’s no entrance from this room to its base. There do appear to be plenty of handholds and metal bars to climb, though. She purses her lips, then nods.

“What do you say we take a break?” she turns to them with an underlying smugness. “Climb up that watchtower and figure out a game plan.”

Sasha quirks an eyebrow, flatly questioning, “You consider climbing a ‘break’?”

“If you fall and hit the ground hard enough.”

Bayley laughs at her immediate quip, though Sasha shakes her head in good nature whereas Charlotte does the same with a big smile. Overall, she can tell that the blonde is trying the hardest to hold back. This time, she refuses to let it go, staring at the historian that’s had her attention for most of this venture.

“Oh, come on, that was a good one,” she pleads with a cheeky grin, but Charlotte brushes her off and walks away with a smile on her face, leaving Becky alone once the others follow. “No?” she calls out, eventually chasing them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we ate up some nice Baysha and even Charlynch breadcrumbs here. And more pieces of the story. I always loved Uncharted stories (like, from the actual games) since they're so twisty and turny and you never know where they'll end up. There's a lot of symbolism in them, though. They're nice to follow and think deeper about. In my opinion, at least.
> 
> As aforementioned, I'll be taking a short break (let's call it an intermission) while I gather my bearings for the upcoming chapters. Which, I'll tell you now, I have two already written and, GOD, they're packed with information and stuff I think you'll enjoy (also hate me for, but...). I'll be warning everyone at the beginning of the specific future chapter, but from now on, I'd be paying attention to the TWs I've listed in the story's tags, if those concern you. We're really going into the nooks and crannies of everything and sometimes they're... not so peachy. 
> 
> ANYWAY, once I have a good amount of chapters ready to roll out (since I like being ahead of the game so I can update whenever I get really anxious/impatient), I'll be coming back and we'll get this show back on the road. I think it's safe to say we're halfway through now. Possibly two-thirds, but I don't know. My chapters keep getting too long so I have to split them in half and then it's just a certified mess, so. Either way, have no fear, there's still a buttload of content left. Like... more than we've seen. Way more dialogue, way more fun, way more fluff (and other things... stay wary of the fic's rating, folks), way more action, stuff like that. You get the gist. And I need to stop typing. Bottom line: I'm almost done holding out on you. It's time to kick this shit into high-gear. Charlynch, specifically, and Becky as an individual. You'll see. 
> 
> Thank you (again and again) for reading. I know I've published so many words so far (fun fact: with this update, we've surpassed my longest fic written, beating it out by 1K and we're still kickin'), and honestly I'm shocked people aren't tired of the story/me yet. BUT I applaud you for reaching this author's note (and reading it, too, despite how much I've typed this time), and I applaud you for bearing all the drama in this fic. Your dedication to the 4HW? Unmatched. 
> 
> Have a nice day/night/evening/morning/whatever!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back so soon?
> 
> I know... I should be asking myself that question. I'll get to the answer once you read.
> 
> Just letting you know: you should probably grab a snack and a drink for this one. That's all I'm sayin'. Carry on.

MON., 3:57 P.M.

* * *

“I might’ve underestimated this climb,” Becky grits her teeth.

Her hand reaches up as she simultaneously adjusts her footing, using her muscles to their fullest when she pulls herself upwards.

“Ya think?” Sasha does the same right below her, and Bayley chuckles as she’s third in line. _“‘Break’_ my ass.”

The redhead pauses, not sure she’s heard correctly. Either way, she can’t help the laugh that stops her motions from going any further, and she has to lean her head partly to peer down at Sasha.

“What was that?” it doesn’t stifle her humor, cheeks feeling tight from the amusement.

Bayley revels in the comedy as she laughs just as much. Between them, Sasha shakes her head and closes her eyes through self-directed annoyance, more so for giving them something to joke about. Maybe even tease her about, later on. She groans, but also catches the sound of Charlotte sharing in the entertainment by snickering at the lowest point of their train. Tailing her own groan, the mercenary forces a second one, louder with more emphasis, inviting defense.

“You called this climb a break. God, you’re all children.”

Charlotte’s mouth fumbles open.

“What did _I_ do?” she squeaks out, thinking prior that she’d been quiet.

“I heard you laugh, too. Don’t play.”

The historian shakes her head lightly. Although, once Becky gives her a meddling hum raining down from the top of the tower, the motion becomes stronger. After that, Charlotte focuses on the climb. Hand by hand, foot by foot, with precision and disregard for how high up they are. If she were to simply lean herself backwards, arms extended yet gripping onto the building’s eroded railings for support, she’d be floating on air. A straight drop to the ground. Thousands of feet of nothing. In total, it’s even higher than when they were rustling through Libertalia to reach the treasury’s main hall. Here, as they scale the watchtower’s exterior and climb to its flat, cylindrical lid, they’re perched above the majority of this district’s buildings and have a scenic view of absolutely everything. The vast jungle, the shore leading up to the giant snapping-turtle cliff’s base, the water, the fog that ails the island.

Charlotte imagines that, above her, as Bayley and Sasha are helped onto the platform by Becky, they’re already on the cusp of discovering what else those views have to offer. Examples being the scents, the sounds, the probable birds soaring above, the greens, the blues, the yellows, the breeze, the _everything._ Libertalia’s overall essence, come to a head as they stand above it all.

And getting here was no easy task. Following their summarized theory detailing what happened back in the courtyard and ultimately within the ransacked treasury, Becky assumed her leadership and climbed atop a bookcase to scour the scene from a better vantage-point. She looked around as Charlotte studied her posture. How the Irish woman got onto her tippy toes while balancing herself with her arms spread stiffly. Neck extended, reddened throat exposed, bottom lip caught between her teeth. A surefire expression of concentration. Charlotte smiled, but purposely wiped her fluttering reaction away once Becky’s chin lowered. She’d found their route to leave the treasury.

Soon, they’d be grappling onto a rusted, golden chandelier hung above them, previously unnoticed among the rest of the other, remarkable aspects of the room. They’d swing from it with accuracy, grab onto a loose-hanging chain, and then launch their bodies onto one of the founder’s paintings. It was successful ━ thankfully so ━ and each woman climbed the portrait’s ornate frame without hearing a measly crack. The opening in the roof lead them onto a stubby platform, one which allowed for a single swing to the tower they’re finishing their scale up along, and their climb started immediately.

All throughout the events, they’ve shared silly banter and average encouragement. Compliments, more like. Even more than they’d exchanged prior to the second gunfight they endured, like when they were jumping through the ruins of Libertalia’s fallen outskirts and keeping their minds pristine. Focused, that is. Not deep enough conversation to distract one’s thoughts, but enough to stimulate and keep the juices flowing. Quite frankly, it’s been nice, especially added to the element of a sweet-flowing breeze that wafts through their hair and tickles their skin, plus the warm sunshine that’s like a kiss from Mother Nature. It’s like a girls’ day out, currently. Save the gunfire, Charlotte muses.

“May I have your hand?”

Becky’s voice breaks Charlotte out of her thoughts, the treasure hunter’s palm extended with her fingers curled slightly. She’s waiting for Charlotte to accept the gesture. The simple gesture that symbolizes so much more, beneath the surface. Trust. Sincerity. Underlying yet affectionate intention. Charlotte smiles without looking into brown eyes, reaching up and once again brushing her fingers against a soft palm. This time, she does glance into Becky’s eyes, and the hunter squints. Like earlier, the historian is trying her darndest to get under Becky’s skin with emphasized yet somehow also diluted motions that tickle and make her heart skip a beat. She can tell from Charlotte’s grin that morphs into a smirk, too.

“Mm,” Becky offers her a hum, and Charlotte traps her lower lip between her teeth.

Nevertheless, the redhead pulls her up onto the roof with minimal struggle, being helped by Charlotte propelling herself upward with a kick to a lower handhold. Once standing, Charlotte is bound to thank her for her efforts. For her blatant ━ unnecessary, but still appreciated ━ efforts that speak volumes about how she has more than simple motives. How she’s being… _chivalrous._ But, as ocean eyes get their initial taste of the surrounding atmosphere, she’s already speechless. Her mouth falls open, and that’s that.

“The view makes up for the climb, huh?” Becky’s smile is faint, a shade smug. “I could get used to it. Would need an elevator, though.”

Lacking a proper response, Charlotte drifts away with deliberate steps. If she were able, she’d agree with Becky: she could ━ without a doubt ━ get used to the view.

The circular, stone roof is surrounded by a black railing, two horizontal poles with vertical spindles in a fence-like structure. It’s perfectly sturdy, ready to be leaned against as Bayley and Sasha already chose their spot at the opposite curve of the platform, shoulders brushing and elbows resting on the metal structure. Green vines and leafy plants coat the platform beneath their boots, mimicking a grass blanket with occasional flickers of stone beneath. Size-wise, the roof isn’t large, roughly the mass of the boat they traveled here with. Then again, it’s not like they’re paying much attention to where they take their break, and more so on everything that surrounds them.

At first, Becky focuses on the snapping-turtle mountain that’s practically in the indented center of the island. The first, menacing thing she’d spotted through Avery’s statue-held telescope back on the original island. Up close, as they’re standing on a platform higher than any other they’ve stood on before, it’s no less menacing. No less frightening or intimidating. If anything, she feels like she’s staring directly into its eyes. Like she’s daring it to try its worst against her and her teammates. Still, she relaxes her shoulders, and she chooses to focus beyond it. She chooses to bask in the blue sky and fluffy clouds that slide past its toothy, overhung mouth. The gentle backdrop that makes the vegetation below appear a bright, healthy green. Even the jagged rocks at the scary cliff’s base are more brown than black with the warm sun coating their surfaces. A lighter sheen that projects a sense of change, like the sun really does bring optimism.

Becky blinks away her caution, then turns the other way entirely. She shuffles closer to where her group is standing, all staring across the way to where New Devon should be located. Leaning against the rail, they see the mountain range that separates them from the mansions depicted on the treasury’s ceiling map. Its greens and foggy aura disrupted with multiple waterfalls cascading down to the sea, one after another. From where they stand, those landmarks of rushing water appear small, the size of their pinkies, but Becky can tell they’re larger in person. More beautiful up close, definitely. She watches the shimmer of their falling water, the blueish colors, the whitish mist created by the rapids, the pooling of the liquid in lakes at the foot of each before it flows downward again. Like a staircase. It delivers the notion of paradise, and how, even if they weren’t studying the sight from the likes of Libertalia, it’d still be their version of paradise. Becky’s, at least.

She smiles, then shifts her attention to the overall picture once more. Compared to the rest of the mountains, the range they’ll have to travel through or around is the most compact. The shortest, more importantly. Despite that being a concept of fortune for their travels, it’s still scary, in the grand scheme of things. Because, looking past the basin where she can only see a single tip of a mansion, it appears as though the town is built into the center of multiple, larger ranges. Like a natural wall surrounding Avery’s own quarters, and his mates’.

A hum vibrates her throat, and she bites her inner cheek. Her bag’s straps are then loosened from her shoulders, slipped along her right bicep until she’s reaching into the main compartment. Binoculars in hand, she moves as close as she can to the railing and focuses the lenses’ path on the mansion’s tip, also dragging along the shorter mountain’s outline.

“I spy with my little eye… New Devon,” it’s lighthearted and relieved, smiling as Charlotte mimics the expression.

Of course, it’s waved from the historian’s features once Becky lowers the binoculars. She hands the object to Bayley next, the brunette gingerly pressing them to her eyes. As she looks through, her gaze squints, mouth falling into a focused, straight line.

“Well, the mural’s accurate,” Bayley muses. “Look at the size of that,” she’s astonished, handing the binoculars to Sasha.

On sight, Sasha’s eyebrows raise. Her mouth also drops open.

“Yeah, ‘that’ being only _one_ of the freakin’ mansions. Shit,” the mercenary is impressed. “How long do you think it’ll take to get there?”

Becky purses her lips and blows out, making a face in the process.

“Hard to tell. Doubt it’s a straight trail through the mountain,” she gestures vaguely, Sasha sharing the discovery with Charlotte by handing her the binoculars. “I’d say we’ll get relatively near there before nightfall. Find somewhere to hide for some rest. As long as the skies stay clear,” her eyes wander along the clouds’ fluffy outlines.

Charlotte’s the least vocal of the bunch as she views their destination, but Becky watches the way her eyes blink behind the miniature lenses. How she’s stunned, maybe as far as in disbelief. After all, they didn’t even know of New Devon before the treasury. Admittedly, Becky feels just as lost, like she’s in a dream. She’s found Libertalia ━ the place she’d been searching for throughout years of strenuous hunting ━ and now she’s on the brink of walking through New Devon. Where Avery apparently lived. Where over a dozen, big-name pirates spent their final days. Likely after waging a war within their secret civilization. The amount of history they’ve consumed today isn’t something to stomach easily. In fact, Becky wishes they could sit atop the roof and make shapes out of the clouds in a leisure activity for another hour or two.

Unfortunately, if they want to keep on the move ━ away from the army that’s been stalking them ━ then they’ll have to proceed without rest. Without letting the overwhelming information sink in, or settle within their minds.

Charlotte finishes with her turn at examining their new destination, handing them to Becky who quickly secures them in her bag. Sighing lightly, she faces her teammates, hands on her hips.

“So, uh,” she begins, treading carefully but pridefully, a devious glint in her eye, “what do ya say we become tourists to this mysterious New Devon?”

She carefully notes their expressions. How Sasha nods her head with sealed, intrigued lips. How Bayley smiles contentedly but also mischievously ━ equal parts anxious and excited, as if she’s getting used to this whole, treasure-hunting thing. Becky’s eyes shift to Charlotte, most of all, and she’s surprised to find that the tall blonde is the only one to actually respond.

“Lead the way, Captain.”

It’s accompanied by a smirk. One that Becky matches on cue. And, with that, Becky goes first in dropping down to the lower handhold which they previously used to get up. Immediately, it cracks beneath the fresh pressure of her boot, but she manages to catch herself with a caught-off-guard laugh.

“Be cautious. It was too easy climbing up,” she proceeds, and the others follow one after another. “Makes me think the walls are just waiting to buckle,” it’s grunted out, Becky dropping herself lower.

“She’s such a positive leader,” Bayley jokes from two bodies away, Charlotte between her and the hunter.

The remark earns a chuckle from Sasha, but the mercenary primarily focuses on not looking down. She can tell that Bayley is trying to keep her level-headed and away from fearing the open air surrounding them. Internally, she thanks her and praises her efforts. Outwardly, she can’t say much. Actually, she can’t say _anything._ Her throat begins to close up, but she takes open-mouthed breaths and keeps calm.

“I’m practical,” Becky argues, glancing up to see everyone moving accordingly.

“Oh, is that what you’re calling it?”

Charlotte’s teasing voice rings through Becky’s ears. It’s so distinct and self-satisfied that Becky has to press her tongue to her inner cheek to stop herself from getting too distracted. At the same time, she can’t let the historian win. Not this time. She refuses to give up on their banter. Something about Charlotte’s tone dares her to continue, as well. Like it’s a challenge laid out between them, and she’s begging the Irish woman to bite. So, she obliges.

“Watch yourself, Your Majesty,” comes the low warning, heat laced within the statement while basically forgetting that they’re not alone.

Becky seals her lips, grabbing onto the wall’s next indent and peering down to see the closest, stone balcony at approximately ten feet below where her boots rest upon a slant in the structure. Charlotte hums above her, and the redhead knows there’s another retort stirring.

“Or what, Hot Head?”

Her assumption proves correct. Just as Charlotte glances down with a faint smile toying at her lips, Becky pauses and lifts her chin to look up. Her eyes are squinted, expression entertained and ready to toss back her own cunning thought.

Furthermore, there’s a spark in their eye contact that causes them to ignore the world around them. To ignore the fact that they’re scaling the side of a tower, thousands of feet in the air with nowhere to go but downwards. And, if you were to ask either one of them, they’d admit that they’d be willing to get lost in it. To revel in the warmth it brings. The sun on their cheeks, the breeze in their hair. The two of them, also ignoring their teammates’ presence. In fact, they’d go as far as to say they _want_ it. They want that comfort, that moment of time where they finally fall together again. Like old times. Like years ago, when their feelings aligned but were ultimately halted by an outside, inescapable force.

It seems all too familiar in the current moment. Because, much like always, the universe doesn’t give a damn what they want.

Before their minds can comprehend what’s happening, an explosion shakes the building and the surrounding land. She knows the sound that brought about the tremor, too: a fiery shot from a rocket launcher, bursting through one wall with the sound of crumbling stone pieces falling against sister slabs waiting below. All in the blink of an eye, all in a single breath. All four women shudder, heads turning to find the source. Their views are obstructed, realistically, with pieces of rock tumbling down and taking more chunks with them. An avalanche of debris, all flakes releasing themselves little by little at the rocket’s force. How it slammed against the brittle building without warning. How it went straight through it, creating a gaping hole on the west side of the tower. It’s now that they realize they’re climbing up a dying wall, and smoke surrounds the area so their vision is blurred.

It all happens so quickly. The shot, the toppling rubble, the dust that gets in their eyes to the point where they have to blink despite their gazes feeling widened via in-sync fear. Not to mention the succeeding gunfire that erupts from the same area the shot came from, peppering only roughly three feet away from Becky’s right hand.

They’re stuck in place. Stuck on the side of the building without an inkling of where to go, where to climb to in hopes of taking cover before they can formulate a plan of attack. Or just a plan of evasive action, whether it be to hide or flat-out run away.

Becky’s frightened thoughts are disrupted, sadly. Because, once an inner, wooden support structure falls to the ground, the upper piece of wall where Sasha and Bayley hung onto collapses with it. So do the two women.

“No!” Becky and Charlotte shout in unison to where they fall, but they’re grateful enough to find that their partners land on the nearest platform.

It’s a blessing in disguise, truly. Their knees buckle once their feet land, tripping forward slightly but holding onto each other to move quickly through the doorway and into the tower. Bayley’s shin appears to hold up under the fall, and that’s the only other relieving element that Becky finds. All the while, Sasha shields the brunette’s head from any stray pieces of rock that rain down from above. Also against the flying sparks resulting from fire being set within the tower, itself. Just another result of the rocket launcher’s force. Its sheer impact that ignited the dusty, dry wood keeping the tower upright.

Becky is panicked to her maximum state as she hangs there. Helpless and terrified. Even more so than when that man had his forearm pressed to her trachea. Even more so than when she’d been back in that godforsaken prison yard with sirens blaring and spotlights tracking her every move. She can tell, even without looking up, that Charlotte is equally as catatonic where she hangs.

Men’s shouts flood the area, both surrounding the building and from a second, nearby tower where the woman from before holds onto an RPG. Becky makes out the first glimpse of her silhouette once a black cloud of smoke fades out, and, by then, she’s fearful of her stance. There she is, aiming the weapon again. Brown eyes slam shut as she waits for the inevitable. The idea that she can’t drop herself to the platform below before it smashes into the tower’s wall once more, likely destroying it entirely. It’s all inevitable. How she’ll fall with the bits and pieces of stone set centuries ago, how she’ll crumble under the weight of her own sins.

What she doesn’t plan for is the woman missing her target. The missile whizzes past the building. Wasted on air. It warrants a breath of relief, but it’s simultaneously a breath of readiness. She knows it won’t be long until the woman succeeds, as long as she reloads in a modest amount of time. Even if she never managed, Becky still doesn’t trust the way the tower shakes. How it sways every now and then, like the base has become loosened from the soil it’s implanted in.

In fact, none of the women like it, and they all notice. As they wait beneath an archway, Sasha and Bayley’s eyes search the platform, listening to the way the stone scrapes back and forth like it’s wiggling in place. Their chests shake with it. Up above, Charlotte’s hands vibrate along the stone handholds, its surface chipping like it’s made of caked dust and Elmer’s glue. Crumbling under the faintest touch in signal that it’s bound to give out at any moment.

“Guys, let’s go,” Sasha sounds urgent.

By all means, the situation is dire. They all know it. Becky gives the world a curt nod while ignoring the men’s shouts in the distance. Like how they yell, “Quick! Quick!” and “Cut them off at the base!” Beyond anything, she ignores how the familiar woman demands another missile to launch.

“Wait here, Charlotte,” her eyes shine as she looks upward, and the blonde only stares at her.

Becky doesn’t have time to ask what it means, or harp on the likelihood of how Charlotte may snap again. In fact, she doesn’t care. All the redhead wants is to get them to safety. The four of them, cozy and away from this army. These madmen, and _especially_ the woman she’s been trying her hardest to avoid.

Through a spur-the-moment decision, Becky lets go of her handhold. She almost falls once her boots slam onto the balcony’s surface, feeling the thump that reverberates through her bones. It drills through her ankles, up her shins, into her knees, and shakes her torso. Even her neck feels rattled in an acute whiplash. Again, she doesn’t have time to focus on it, or wonder if she’s starting to impair her body more than she ever has.

She looks up at Charlotte who’s peering down, their eye contact still heavy, but this time sentimental and pleading. Becky’s lip even appears pouted, pushed out with her focus glistening. Charlotte knows she’s about to cry.

“I’ll catch you,” the hunter says. “I promise.”

Charlotte doesn’t have to think twice.

The blonde’s boots hardly touch the ground before Becky pulls her upright, two firm hands on her lower torso to make sure she’s in place. Hand in hand, they’re running into the building where Bayley and Sasha wait on an inner loft. It’s a swirling staircase, like you’d find within a lighthouse where a massive, empty space is in the middle. Normally, they’d look down. They’d wonder what’s below, and if it’s worth heading downwards. Here, they don’t have to.

“That’s a lot of fire,” Charlotte worries with a waver in her voice. “It’s climbing, too.”

“Well, we can’t just stay here,” Bayley argues. “We won’t survive a jump from this high, either.”

“We have to keep moving down,” Sasha’s agreement comes quick. “Keep in the middle of the staircase.”

They shield their eyes with their forearms as they walk with cautious steps. The boards creak below the thuds of their heavy boots, and, each time, they wonder if they’ll fall through. Pieces of wood trickle down through the hollow center of the tower like someone’s standing atop and tossing them down. They hit the railings every now and then, pinging off with empty sounds before finding refuge in the burning fire.

As they move, the four women know they have to stay close. That they have to move as one, and ignore what they’re facing. The crackling fire that’s piling high, at least twenty feet in diameter. They know they have to move diligently and swiftly, ignoring the stinging in their eyes as there’s an orange filter clouding them along with the ashes that get trapped in their hair. Against their sweaty skin, as well. They know all of these things, yet it proves to be tremendously difficult when the hallway is already in shambles, threatening to spill into the flames. It’s like they’re in a furnace, subjected to immediate flames and heavy smoke that makes their eyes scream out in pain. They cough here and there, moving along the railing.

“They’re inside!”

A man’s shout permeates the shattering walls, through the smoke. They don’t know if he’s anywhere near entering the tower, and that’s the scariest part. The unknown.

Long gone is the playful banter. The breeze in their hair. The sun on their skin. The happiness of the surrounding world. Becky gradually begins to realize that this is the inevitable showdown. The culmination of prior events, instructed by someone ruthless and powerful. She realizes that they’ve been running on borrowed time, and it’s now their turn to pay it back. Running for their lives within a burning tower, its walls crumbling below and beside them, the roof even having holes blown through it as they avoid chunks of stone that nearly slam down on their heads. By all means, it’s symbolic of her own journey. Of her own choices in life that have sadly lead her into a burning mess.

This is the tower that she’s built. Where she’s found peace. Where she’s stumbled upon the importance of partnership, and even love. It’s the climax of her journey. It’s also a load of shit, Becky thinks as her eyes water.

“Jump, Becky, damn it!”

She refocuses just in time to see her teammates standing on a lower platform, five feet of charred air between them. Charlotte’s eyes beg her to listen quickly. To stop being distracted and just focus, for once. To let herself be taken care of, in a broader sense. Bayley stands next to her appearing the same, wearing a body language that’s equally imploring. Sasha’s jaw is stiffened, but Becky knows she shares the same, caring request.

Her jump is lined up, backing up partly and launching herself forward with the proper technique. She sees Charlotte breathe out once she’s with them, but they’re on the move before the blonde can flash her the simplest of smiles. Becky doesn’t blame her. She feels the ache, too.

They’re running along another stretch of flat boards before their next decline of stairs comes into view. They’re running, that is, until those planks give out. Another blink later and they’re crashing onto a lower platform of the tower. A fall of twenty feet. They hit the next piece of deck with a synchronized thud, and a round of aftershock cracks.

“Oh, what the _fuck…”_ Sasha stresses as her back hit flat against the newest slab of wood, but she turns onto her stomach.

Bayley’s hand is on her shoulder to help her up, both of them painfully aware of the fall they just endured, yet opting to rush forward. The awareness that they have to keep moving remains prominent in their bones. If they don’t, the guns outside the tower will soon be aimed in their face. Or worse: they won’t even have a chance to see them aimed in their face.

“Gotta keep going,” Becky groans as she picks herself up, Charlotte helping like Bayley had done for Sasha.

Once she’s on her feet, her posture grows solemn. Mindless, even. She’s about to say, “They won’t stop.” She’s about to warn them of what she should’ve earlier, but didn’t have the strength or mindset to. The courage to. The _guts_ to. Unfortunately, she suddenly realizes that she should’ve.

Because, with another, three missiles being slammed into the building in a second’s span, the group is caught up in what feels like the Titanic splitting down its middle. The railings shake, shift back and forth with their crevices rubbing together. The walls’ cracks grow and shrink, allowing sunlight to seep in before crushing back together. The ceiling above crumbles more than ever, slabs the size of refrigerators falling downwards and dropping onto wooden loft-spaces in every direction. Wooden shreds fly into the air, splinters bursting in what resembles miniature explosions.

They can’t move. They’re afraid of what comes next, but not enough to scramble. Not enough to save themselves. It’s like the universe is suddenly throwing everything it has at them, all with a smile on its face. Becky is stunned.

Their feet vibrate against the wood, the foursome focusing on finding something to hold onto. Their hands all grasp for the railing, but, by that time, it’s too late. The building begins to slant, and gradually the wall becomes the floor. They have to rush forward, and it’s even more harrowing when light glows upward from the ground. The fire continues to fester while being no match for the sun, the tower’s base opening up as it breaks from its rooted foundation and tilts like a pillar taking to gravity.

All their work of moving down against the staircase is now flipped on its head as they run up its shattering wall. With a crash, their vision is disoriented as the building falls horizontally like a collapsed, hollow tree becoming a bridge over a dam in the woods. This, however, takes those dramatics to the next level. They run within a tipped-over building, the tunnel-like structure hovering above thousands of feet of air as it messes with their minds. Glass windows take the place of rugs beneath their boots. Open doorways are now manholes to drop through. The ceiling is a doorway, yards in front of them, floor nonexistent as — if they were to stop running — they’d slide down the tube and into the abyss. Gaps appear in sections, pieces of rock flying up, rubbing together, then separating again like tectonic plates.

“Keep running!” Sasha shouts from the front, Bayley right beside her, pushing through the pain in her shin, as Charlotte tails them.

Becky is last, watching over her group. She’ll be damned if she leaves anyone behind her. She’ll be damned if she’s not the wrap-up, the overseer. The one that’s forgotten if there _has_ to be someone who is. No one argues with her. She knows it’s more so due to there being a lack of time.

There’s a grumble from behind her. A misplaced sound like a boulder rolling out from beneath something important. She tries her hardest to prevent herself from peering over her shoulder. To prevent herself from becoming distracted. She knows she needs to keep running, to keep looking ahead and stretch her legs a little more, just enough to make it through. Sadly, if there’s anything that she’s known for, it’s that she’s all too privy to making mistakes.

The sound of glass breaking gets Charlotte’s attention, turning back to see that Becky has locked her leg by stepping on a window. Around them, the building is beginning to slip away from the cliff. Its support has broken, a fragment keeping it lodged in place toppling to sea level under the massive weight. They don’t have much time. Soon, the tower will be sliding downwards with faster inertia, taking them along with it. It’ll be sliding from the cliff’s edge and eventually down to where it’ll lie thousands of feet below. Its gravesite, and theirs. If they don’t move fast enough, that is.

Becky struggles to get her foot undone, panic-stricken while frantically reaching for her leg. Charlotte runs back to her just as it’s successfully withdrawn, but the redhead falls forward and groans with her fists beating the stone below. The historian witnesses the crumble of not only the tower around them, but also of Becky Lynch.

“No, no, no,” she reaches the Irish woman, pulling her up. “Becky, come on. We can’t stop running. Please.”

If the hazardous scenario wasn’t enough encouragement to proceed, the desperation in Charlotte’s demeanor would be. Her eyebrows are knitted together, eyes frightened, body stiffened with her lips parted. Becky almost gets lost in how terrified the blonde looks. She almost apologizes, too.

“It’s starting to give out!” Sasha’s heightened warning bounces off the wreckage.

In a collective agreement, they run together. Hand in hand. Becky runs to match Charlotte’s speed, and vice versa. Throughout their full-speed sprinting, their jumping when a crack splits right in front of them, they never let go. They don’t even think about it. Beneath their boots, the building’s weight begins to drag itself down the cliff faster, daring the two to get caught on another, stray window or doorway. Daring them to trip over their own panic, even. For what feels like hours, they run, and run, and run even more, but hardly get anywhere. By now, it feels like they’re on a treadmill, moving their legs as rapidly as they can, stretching them out, yet still getting nowhere as the wall slips out from under them.

An open-sided room is ahead of them, Sasha and Bayley waiting on solid ground. They’re wide-eyed and anxious, postures blocky as they watch their teammates tread the last, ten feet of wall that’s slanting upward and creating a bigger incline to match.

“Come on, come on, come on.”

They can hear Sasha chanting through clenched teeth. Even through the sound of stone against stone, a searing, stinging sound that punishes their ears despite their focus being on their legs. Their temples pound, and the sweat coating their skin thickens. Becky hasn’t run this much since the prison-break, and it brings back flashes of memories she forces into the very back of her mind. All in the name of keeping her eyes locked on the edge of the wall.

One, two, three, four, five more steps until their boots kick off its corner at the very last second. The long section of tower falls to its end. As for Becky and Charlotte, they’re already being helped onto the intact room by Sasha and Bayley, respectively. Their hands are kind yet firm, caring and relieved. There’s even a moment of comfort found within the puffing smoke as the tower crunches on impact with the trees and their roots. The stone crumbles, chalky substance polluting the air as it gushes upward like oil within water. It rolls outward, as well, becoming a smog that seeps through the surrounding houses and the homes of animals.

And, for a moment, everything is quiet. For once, they find the lack of birds chirping, the lack of cuckooing, to be nothing short of a relief. Because, in frank, they’re around to hear it. They’re alive. They’ve survived the collapsing tower. Those RPG shots. They’ve somehow snuck their way out of the clutches of death.

It’s not over, by any means, and Becky knows it. In contrast to other times, however, she’s able to savor the moment at hand. To revel in its bringing of fresh air that fills her lungs while she catches her breath. Charlotte’s hand lingers on her shoulder, using her as a support. Becky will always be that support. After this, they both deserve it.

“Hurry, let’s go. Before they━”

A door being kicked down in the opposite corner of the room startles them.

“There you are!” a man laughs with a thick accent, gun ablaze with his face scrunched.

They all duck, then rush behind a half-broken wall that hides them just enough. Bullets ping against the other side, Becky and Charlotte having their backs pressed against it. Bayley is knelt at their feet, her breathing labored but not as much as the two in front of her. Sasha, next to them, doesn’t take long to adjust into her mercenary form. She cocks her gun and fixes her position, squinting one eye and firing away. Two bullets, two men dropped with a collective thud. More flood into the space, almost regenerating once the doorway is lacking bodies within.

Normally, Becky would push aside her body’s outcry and her overwhelming exhaustion to help the mercenary take out their assailants. She’d usually put in effort and fight side by side, especially considering that this is _her_ fight. Even if they don’t realize it, this is the redhead’s fight. But, looking up at Sasha who’s locked on against their enemies, she notices how high the woman’s riding on adrenaline. How focused, and skilled.

Bayley, on the other hand, has a different plan. She’s done waiting around, and she’s done tapping her fingers at the nerve-wracking thought of the men potentially getting a hit against Sasha. So, in quick thinking, she scoots along the floor on bent knees, ignoring the mercenary’s concerned eyes.

“Bay,” it’s hissed, Sasha spooked at the brunette’s motives, but she can’t turn away from the gunfire.

After all, besides the brittle protection they have between them and the soldiers, Sasha is the best line of defense. She can’t walk away and leave their other partners ready to be picked off. Her jaw clenches, ready to finalize the job before the perpetrators notice Bayley.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Bayley unfastens the metallic hook from her belt, swings the rope, and precisely lands two loops around a stray beam above the soldiers’ heads. They look up, and, with a heavy crack, they’re gone. Crushed totally, beneath the weight of half of the room with dust puffing out from beneath the rubble. Immediately, the shooting stops. Sasha’s shoulders relax, and Becky eases her head to peek over the wall. Charlotte does the same, then they all turn to Bayley who approaches again. The hook is set back in place, and the mercenary can’t help but smile through her disheveled appearance.

“Nice work,” she compliments through an exhale. “Oh my God, your leg,” her eyes float down to Bayley’s shin, fresh blood seeping through the fabric of her khaki pants ━ but not much.

“I’m fine,” Bayley can hardly feel it. “Just a little reopened wound from the fall. I’ll be okay,” she puts a gentle hand on Sasha’s bicep, rubbing her thumb along the area, and the mercenary forces herself to nod.

The sincerity in Bayley’s eyes is too genuine to ignore. She knows she means it. There are deeper, unspoken words between them as Bayley’s hand continues to draw subtle patterns on her skin, the two having to cut their tender moment short by deliberate remembrance of what they’re up against. What they just went through over the course of however-many minutes. The tower crumbling, the falling, the running, jumping, burning, sprinting, shooting. All of it.

Becky looks down at her arms as she stands, noting the patches of dusty black soot mixed with dirt. She tries brushing them off, but doesn’t take too much time on it. They still have to move. Despite what they’ve already endured, they have yet to come face to face with the woman instructing it all. That’s what bothers Becky the most, like a caged animal contained in the smallest of crates. The others detect her alert, but don’t question it. They’re all on edge, quite frankly.

“Through this door,” the hunter doesn’t wait around any longer, walking over to the barrier and carefully pushing it open.

Much to their fortune, there’s no one waiting behind it. No goons stalking them, waiting to ambush them. A sigh of relief exits her throat, looking over her shoulder and getting a nod from Sasha. An unspoken agreement that they can proceed. She treads carefully, walking quietly with taut muscles like they’re creeping up on someone, themselves. Any, noisy movements would expose their whereabouts, and Becky bites the tip of her tongue. She gnaws on it, knowing that, if she bites down any harder, she’ll draw blood. Honestly, she already tastes a metallic sting, but she’s unsure if it’s actually due to the air full of various smokes and particles oneself shouldn’t inhale.

The space they enter is half of a room. Nowadays, it more so resembles a deck, a straight platform of wood roughly seven feet in width. A balcony without a railing, in other terms. Other than that, it simply drops off. Becky peeks down to see a mudslide below it, although nothing more. The slope, again, drops off. Leads to nowhere. Aside from beneath a curved, stone archway, that is. Everything around them is in shambles, exposed to the outdoor elements with branches and vines taking over the rock and wood.

Besides the lesser route to exit the platform ━ the mudslide ━ there’s a lone door leading back into the building. It’s cracked, the doorknob ready to be used and the barrier ready to be pushed against. Becky would be lying if she said re-entering the mansion was an okay idea, particularly because she doesn’t trust that there won’t be more soldiers waiting for them, but it’s the only way. She’s not taking a chance with the muddy hill. She’s not about to find out where it leads ━ if it leads to _anything_ other than a drop to their slippery death.

“We’re going back inside. Prepare yourselves,” with raised eyebrows, she looks back at them.

It’s a brief glance, albeit telling. She doesn’t want to go back in, but it appears there’s no other option. The others nod, a silent proclamation that they’re doing what they have to. The sight is reassuring, but not enough to calm the Irish woman’s nerves. She gulps once she faces the door again.

An apprehensive hand hovers above the doorknob. It’s only a mere, three seconds before her suspicions prove valid. Like hours ago, a grenade rolls out from between the crack of the door. This time, however, Becky is able to react properly. She runs aside to tackle Charlotte, prepared to shield the woman’s head in a natural reaction. She cuddles her face against her chest, also covering her own skull while a giant hole is exploded into the center of the deck, and the door flies outward down the mudslide. Nearby, Bayley does the same to Sasha, letting the broken platform split in half between them and their two other partners. Everyone’s skin is singed by shrapnel as it flies. It peppers their bodies, creating little incisions. Still, it sure as hell beats broken bones. Or worse: explosive death.

The four of them cough once the warmth of the blast disperses. Smoke clouds the area, each of them having a difficult time focusing as they ease their heads upward.

Becky can hardly see Sasha and Bayley from where she gets up, so her left hand drifts away from Charlotte’s back as she takes a step closer to the loosened boards.

“Is everyone okay?”

The historian is bringing herself back to her feet when there’s a snap. Her eyes widen, and Becky tries retracing her steps with rushed backpedaling, but it’s too late. The boards come undone from below her boots. They drop her downwards like a folding seat within a carnival tank after someone hit the bullseye. She can’t even flail her arms upward to catch herself on an overhanging slab of wood, hearing the in-sync sound of her three teammates yelling, “Becky!”

Her mind can hardly catch up to the events. To her understanding, she’s still standing on the deck with her teammates, still braving the exposure to a grenade’s harsh outcome. With force, she has to focus her eyes and brain as she looks down the mudslide.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Desperate hands steer her this way and that, also trying to kick her boots against the substance to create some traction. It doesn’t work. At the end of the slope, she spots nothing but open air. Her throat tightens. That is, until she rounds a slight curve just beneath the archway, and a building’s wall is stationed ten feet away from the end of the slide. She breathes out but purses her lips, avoiding the splattering, thick liquid on her cheeks. Becky weighs her options: jump onto the stone wall, or fall to her death. Obviously, she chooses the best one.

At the very end of the mudslide, her weight shifts onto the flats of her feet. She kicks off the lip of the slope, launching her aching body across the gorge and onto the crumbling, stone wall. It stays intact at the force of her torso smacking against it, though it doesn’t stop her from groaning when she hits it cheek first.

“Fuck.”

Her backpack straps hang loosely against her shoulders, having to adjust a time or two while focusing on keeping her fingers tightly against the board she’s held onto. She rubs her chapped lips together, feeling the dry, cracking skin beneath her tongue when she tries to wet them. No avail. She huffs, then turns her head to see if she can spot her teammates. Again, no avail. There’s too much of an obstruction in the form of that stone archway, and craning her neck which-way won’t do any good. It won’t let her see if they’re safe, or if they’ve made it off the deck safely, or if they’re panicking while searching for where she’s fallen to.

Becky’s face twists into a grimace. Another, loud groan is heard as she leans her forehead against the stone. She wants to sulk there. She wants to stay there, and wallow in her mounting self-pity. Her mounting irritation toward herself and her life choices. All of them, one by one. Even if it wouldn’t get her anywhere, maybe it’s better than trying to race against the ticking clock that’s on its last leg. Her time is running thin, and she knows it. Maybe it’s even up already. Hell, maybe it was up a long time ago. All this time, she’s been playing with fire, and she hasn’t even noticed until now that she’s been charcoaled to bits by the kindling she tended to repeatedly. She’s been stuck within a body of dancing flames for longer than she’s realized. Staring at them, catatonically, and allowing the fire to engulf everything and everyone around her. She’s existed within that orange flame since Paige died. Everything that’s happened after she took home in the clouds above… it’s all been catastrophic.

Shaking, muddy fingers scratch the board she’s held onto. They dig into the sides of it, hoping to regain a sense of imminence. There’s no time to rest, no matter how upset Becky is with herself. She grits her teeth, then lifts her head so she can peek around the side of the building. From what she can now tell, the building is perched over the cliff with nothing below but trees in the distance. With nothing to touch her feet down against, with nothing to drop to.

Her biceps flex as she reaches for an adjacent board, ready to round the corner and find a way inside. Once she’s accomplished that, she can figure out a game plan to get back to her friends. One which entails saving them. She just hopes they’re not facing whoever threw that grenade.

The treasure hunter huffs, climbing little by little along the exterior. A breeze moves her loose hair, makes her feel cold from the soggy clothes on her body, but not the strands that stick to the sweat of her forehead. To shake those from her eyes, she reaches up with two fingers and scratches them away a bit forcibly. Her cheeks puff out, afterwards, fifty shades of angry while also trying to keep calm.

“You just _had_ to mention how easy it was getting _up_ the tower,” she lectures herself.

While turning the second corner, she follows the outline of a nearby cliff approximately twenty feet below, then more houses along an upper piece of rock. It’s better than nothing, she thinks. If there’s nowhere else to head beyond this building once she reaches its interior, then she’ll aim for there. Once she sneaks through its lone window where her fingers curl around its sill, she’ll be able to figure out her plan of action.

Unlike her usual state, Becky’s upper arm strength proves hazardous in terms of relying upon it. Her slick boots have to kick a little more, press a little more against the outside of the house so, with a round of slipping, she can pull herself upward. Even maneuvering one leg into the room is a hassle, and the second is worse when it comes with a grunt, and━

A punch to the jaw greets her, stumbling onto the floor.

“Fucking _shit,”_ she borderline growls while shaking her head, knees set to the dusty floorboards before looking up to see who’s standing above her.

A timid laugh exits her throat at the sight, coming out in an exhale. She licks her chapped lips again, shifting her jaw while bowing her head for a short moment. Like she’s getting used to the reality she’s living in, or letting it all sink in. Quite frankly, her mind is _still_ up on that deck with her friends.

Becky looks at the person a second time after catching her breath, cheekily saying, “Hey there, Rhea. Fancy seein’ you here.”

“You can’t bullshit your way out of this one, Lynch,” her accent is as thick as ever, Becky muses. “You’ve been following us for continents.”

Brown eyes observe the twelve-by-twelve, cluttered room as she stays on the floor. She observes the small, ceiling holes where sunlight streams in from. The single floorboard that has a gap the size of a football crashed through. The vegetation that, as always, sneaks into the crevices between the loose rocks. Most of all, she observes how there’s no other opening to exit. Nothing besides the window from which she entered. It’s packed with crates, a single bookcase pushed against the lone door that _could’ve_ served as her way out. She notes the dust lines of it, how Rhea purposely slid it back into place so Becky couldn’t escape. This was a set up.

Her right hand comes up and rubs the side of her jaw when it begins to ache. She’s surprised she didn’t lose a tooth, in the process. Her nose scrunches up.

“All coincidental,” she winces, the eventual answer raspy.

“You knew we’d be here.”

The Irish woman places her palms flat against the dusty floor, heaving herself to her feet and studying the remnants of mud from where she landed. Once standing, she limps a little. Swaying where she stands until she catches herself and hops a step or two. It doesn’t make for a very threatening demeanor, though, and she’s all too aware. Especially with the way Rhea tilts her head in short amusement. Becky catches herself and lowers her foot fully to the ground, stiffening her posture. There’s silence in the space. Deafening, telling silence that keeps them locked in place like gelatin. Becky doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like the way Rhea seethes, her head bowed slightly. She doesn’t like how she’s dressed from head to toe in tactical gear, ready to end the lives of the foursome. She doesn’t like the appearing, gradual snarl on her face, either. Because, when it’s shown, the treasure hunter detects the underlying smirk that’s hidden within. That’s daring her to make a move like a spooked animal. Rhea knows she’s trapped Becky, and that she’s wounded. It only makes for a better fight, in the end. More entertaining, more epic.

And Becky knows it. She knows that Rhea wants her to make a move, trip into a mistake, lay down a challenge. She knows that’s how the woman operates, and how she gets her opponents to fuck themselves over. At the same time, Becky is nothing if not a pest, and that's what she prides herself on. That’s always been her go-to, her trump card. If Rhea has her volatile, daring stance that causes disarray, then Becky has her smug attitude.

So, the Irish woman offers her a slanted smile with a curt chuckle. She shrugs. The bad idea surfaces, leaning on the tip of her tongue and rolling off with ease when she can’t help herself.

“How’d I know your last shred of personality would actually manage to locate Paradise?”

That’s the shot that sets the altercation off, flipping it on its head. Rhea runs at her with intent to punch her square in the nose, but Becky dodges by ducking her head below the swing. She settles at the opposite corner of the room, ready to poke the bear. There’s an asshole-esque smile on the redhead’s face, head lowered like she’s luring the other woman into a trap. Internally, Becky wonders what she’ll do once Rhea is ripe for the picking. Honestly, she hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. Either way, playing with fire is what she’s best at.

“What I _really_ can’t believe is that Miss _Patriotic_ let you run her entire militia while she bounced,” she breathes out, still recuperating from the events. “After all this time, she finally promoted you, huh?” a fauxly innocent smile comes with it.

For the second time, she gets beneath Rhea’s skin. She digs her claws far into where it hurts, remembering past events and the woman’s qualms. And, similar to the last, Becky is ran at as her opponent’s fist misses wildly. She stumbles forward, and Becky paces across from her again.

It’s a good thing Rhea is the same as she’s been, Becky thinks. She’s always been one to rely on her right hook, heavily dependent on her arms’ strength instead of doing anything real fancy. Her footwork could be altered, as well. Becky remembers their sparring sessions quite vividly. Training together, how she’d get the best of the other woman solely because Rhea wouldn’t expand her move-set. Of course, neither did Becky, but she’s never been much of a fighter, anyway.

Outwardly, Becky gives her a twisted grin from the other side of the room. She laughs lowly, then looks Rhea up and down.

“Must make you feel real accomplished, doing the dirty work for someone so prissy.”

This time, she makes a mistake. This time, she’s focused too much on avoiding the modest gap in that lone floorboard, that she misses the thick crack in another. Rhea goes at her again, and, as Becky moves to dodge it with flying colors, her foot slips through the brittle plank. Immediately, she’s compromised.

Rhea slams her to the ground, a giant thud shaking the room as Becky’s eyes shut at the force. They flutter open with a blink, focusing on the glimpse of a fist being raised to punch where her head lies. The redhead moves as Rhea pulls up so she doesn’t break her hand against solid wood, doing it a second time before Becky gathers the strength to break free. Once standing, she goes to kick Rhea’s side with a heavy boot. No contact. Rhea scrambles away at the last second, leaving Becky to wobble forward a step or two. With quick reflexes, Becky is still able to avoid the punch that’s thrown at her. However, those reflexes don’t stretch to plan for the swing-back elbow that Rhea lands. It hits her clean in the side of the head, Becky grunting as she trips away with her palm pressed against what’ll undoubtedly be a bruise on her temple and upper cheekbone.

She supposes she should thank Rhea for giving her a pause to recuperate. It’d be silly, though, because Becky is aware of why she’s doing it. Rhea knows she’s teetering now, while Becky knows that her opportunity to escape is wearing thin. That she’s bound to be clobbered and beaten to a pulp if she doesn’t evade Rhea’s hazardous determination sooner rather than later. All presumptions supported by the way Becky’s eyes scour the room, dotting here and there, at every corner, searching for a weak point in the structure, itself.

Without warning, being closer than Rhea, Becky darts to the window from which she entered. Much to Becky’s misfortune, she mistimes the action. She’s thrown backwards onto her butt, and her head hits the boards.

“You and your friends...” Rhea picks her up by the fabric of her shirt, pushing ━ nay, _throwing_ ━ the hunter against the wall with so much force that she bounces forward, “are like a swarm of gnats.”

Becky coughs weakly, flashing her a diluted smile.

“And _you’re_ the garbage pile,” she retorts, in pain but managing to stand on her tippy toes. “Don’t see me complainin’.”

The smug attitude causes Rhea to throw her onto the ground, Becky sliding two feet against the dirty floorboards. Stray pieces of wood embed themselves in her right forearm before she stops shifting, baring her teeth. If Becky had any doubt that Rhea would give up before, it’s gone now. Diminished. Destroyed entirely. Or, maybe, in some area of her brain, it was coined as hope rather than doubt. She hoped Rhea would come to her senses. Then again, the redhead knows she’s been gone for a while. Lost in a limbo of determination that makes her aggressive. A complicated relationship with her own endeavors. By all means, Becky can relate in at least some way. She knows what it’s like to lose yourself in what you _think_ you need to do in order to be successful. Self-set goals, that is. But… not like this. _Never_ like this.

Rhea’s shoulders bob as she breathes heavily, cheek turned and staring out the window. Her anger bubbles, she broods quietly, and Becky feels her throat tightening up as she lies on the floor. Brown eyes drift down to her belt, slowly moving her hand to reach for her gun while Rhea doesn’t notice.

For the moment, at least.

Because, once Rhea catches onto the action, what Becky is about to do, how she’s on the brink of shooting her and winning, she crosses the room with speed. Becky draws her pistol as quick as her weak limbs allow, but not quickly enough. It’s kicked away, the toe of Rhea’s boot nicking her fingers as Becky flinches at the acute pain. With a metallic sliding noise, the gun drifts across the floor, and down into that board’s gap. Downwards and disappearing. Gone completely. When Becky sees it, she takes in a breath of disbelief.

It’s not allowed fully, in actuality. This time, Rhea doesn’t care to let Becky recuperate. As the redhead goes to get up on sore legs, she’s easily shoved back onto the boards. Her opponent pins her down with white-hot anger.

On contact, it triggers Becky’s mind from earlier. Her pupils dilate. The skin of her neck grows clammy. A breath shudders through her. She remembers the man on top of her. His forearm across her throat. His hot breath. His terrorizing screams telling her to give up, to give in, to die already. She remembers it all, and all too well. In the span of a few seconds, her anger matches her enemy’s.

Before Rhea can get a proper positioning to keep her held down, to get situated with her forearm against Becky’s throat like it’s the army’s patented move, the Irish woman pushes her off with a makeshift strength that she’d lost before. It’s done without breaking a sweat, too. Like a caged animal suddenly released.

Again, she books it for the window, and, again, she’s pulled back. Rhea then blocks Becky’s view of the fresh air, her sole lane to freedom. The redhead is five feet away from her, in the meantime, both of their heads bowed. They’re both breathing heavily, exhaustion matched, shoulders rising and lowering while postures are blocky. It’s a stare-down, and they’re equally as aggravated. Becky for the sake of not knowing what she did to make Rhea so hostile, even with years apart, and Rhea for having her orders. It’s always the orders. Becky shouldn’t be alive, nor should she be here.

Still, with Rhea standing in front of the room’s only sheer exit, Becky knows that she isn’t bound to let her leave. She knows that Rhea believes there’s only one outcome of this, and it’s not good for Becky. But she can’t give up. She can’t let her friends be subjected to the unknowingness of where she went, or if she’s dead. She can’t let her friends be picked off in any way, shape, or form.

Moreover, she can’t let her friends wonder if she simply _abandoned_ them after things got too hairy. No way. That’s a scarier thought. The notion that they’d believe she scrammed. That she vacated the island. That she sent them here for her own benefit and left when it got heated. In the end, it ignites something new within the treasure hunter. Boiling in the bit of her stomach and simmering.

Nothing’s going to stand in her way of reaching them. Her jaw clenches dangerously.

“Have it your way,” she says with a hollow tone, Rhea’s eyes narrowing before they widen when Becky runs straight at her.

The wall doesn’t hold against Becky’s rush of adrenaline. Her rush of protection in regards to her friends. Her rush of anger that sparks it all. It’s like busting through cardboard, or even styrofoam. In fact, it crumbles on contact with Rhea’s back taking the brunt of it. With her shout of pain being as loud as the stones’ crumbling. The two bodies smash right through it, falling through open air and down to the cliff that Becky saw earlier.

Not her best idea. Hitting the ground hurts more than she imagined it would after bursting through a thick, stone wall and falling twenty feet onto more solid rock. Both of them land on their sides, the force of their rush sending them sliding a good, four feet more along the dusty cliff. Becky flops onto her back. Brown eyes open to stare at the sky, everything spinning before she closes them tightly. Her body feels lifeless. Bruised. Beaten. Black and blue. Those damaged ribs from before throb, having their own heartbeat. No longer is she distracted by the hardening mud on her clothes, its gravely texture. She can hardly feel her arms moving once she flops them against the stone cliff. She lies there, dazed.

Becky can’t even focus enough to realize that her friends are all waiting for her. “Waiting” being lighthearted compared to the real setting. In more blunt words, it’s against their will. They’re on their knees, hands stiffly on their heads as soldiers are lined up behind them. Heavily armed soldiers, guns ready to be used if they make any sudden movement. If they dare flinch, or turn their heads, or speak. The sight of Becky’s near-unconscious, dirt-matted body is too much for them to bear, however. Too much for Charlotte to bear, that is. Immediately, once she sees Becky’s body scratch against the fresh rock, her mouth drops open to release a worried “Oh my God, Becky.”

“Quiet!” a soldier jabs her in the back with his boot, and the historian stiffens.

There are fresh friction burns and scrapes on the treasure hunter, not to mention the already-forming marks of damage upon her temple and arms. If you were to ask Becky, she’s surprised she’s still in one piece. A groan is pushed from her throat when she tries to get up, failing and falling back onto the cliff’s edge. Rhea is a little worse for wear, herself. She doesn’t get the leisure of collapsing onto the rock time and time again, however. She’s not granted any interval of rest before a hand is pulling her to her feet a bit roughly.

“I’m not paying you to lie around,” a woman’s voice instructs, lacking any type of respect. “Get her up!”

The redhead shakes her head at the voice, wanting to shove it out of her own ears as it’s like nails to a chalkboard, but she doesn’t have time to sulk in her memories before she’s picked up by her hair. Becky whines at the feeling and grits her teeth so hard that she thinks they’ll crack, that they’ll shatter like shards of glass, soon being put on her knees like the others. Unlike them, her palms are free to stay on the ground in front of her, free to gasp for air when she begins to heave. It’s now that she realizes the wind has been knocked from her lungs. The others look on, frowns shaping their mouths with their foreheads creased. They can’t help, but, God, is it hard to watch and listen to. Bayley has to turn away, lip quivering.

With the fresh air returning to her body, Becky can see more clearly. Someone’s boots nearby. Her backpack thrown aside. The rock beneath her straightened fingers, their tips touching the rough marble. Chipped nails. Her arms covered in small patches of blood, soot, and charred substance. The bruises forming. Red hair curtains down in front of her eyes, damp at the edges whether it’s from mud or sweat or _something._ She knows she looks terrible. At least it matches how she feels.

But the worst feeling of all comes from when she finally turns her head. When she finally acknowledges her partners, seeing them all in a line. All ready to be shot, one after another. Exposed and vulnerable. Bayley will hardly look at her, and Sasha’s jaw is stiffened. Charlotte, most of all, breaks Becky’s heart with a tear trickling down her face, but a blotchiness around her eyes. She’s not sure if they’re more so angry at her, angry at their perpetrators, or scared for their lives. Becky presumes all three. That’s what she feels, at least.

And she supposes that her friends have been set further away from her for a reason. There’s a good chunk of space separating them. Intentionally so. The hunter knows it’s meant so she can see what she’s done. So she can see the outcome of her mistakes, and her misfortune. Her idiotic determination. So she can inevitably see their disappointment.

Becky’s chin lifts slowly to meet Rhea’s eyes, then her boss’. The two stand feet in front of her, smiling lightly.

“You always did know how to make an entrance,” Rhea’s boss chimes, blonde hair bouncing when she tips her head to the side. “But, I must say… this is a pleasant surprise,” the woman smiles as Becky glares at her through the tops of her eyes.

“Said every villain ever,” the treasure hunter spits out, huffing.

“I’m the villain? I’d like to know what you are, then,” she retorts. “Certainly not the hero. You’re too flawed.”

“Every hero is flawed,” Charlotte intervenes, and she’s turned to.

“A hero flawed is not a hero at all,” comes the cool reply, lips pursed. “Can’t save others when you can’t even save yourself.”

The historian’s nostrils flare, irate but unable to do anything about it. Everyone’s aware that her hands are figuratively tied, and any jerking movement would get them shot dead. Charlotte stays silent. Becky doesn’t look at her. She can’t. Not to thank her, not to ease her back down. Not even to apologize. Her head droops between her outstretched arms, damp hair tickling her skin.

“Why the long faces, ladies?” they’re taunted with an uppity attitude, and Becky looks up. “We just saved you from a collapsing tower.”

“After you caved it in with explosives,” Sasha bites back.

“Details, details,” the woman laughs, then looks at Rhea. “Those were some nice shots, General Ripley. Kudos.”

“Thank you, Ms. Evans.”

During the conversation, Becky simmers. She grows more and more quiet, more and more reserved, perilously so. Brown eyes narrow as her body language turns volatile, elusive. Like she’s reverting back into the person she was when given the nickname Loose Canon. It’s predominantly out of dread. That dark emotion clouding her judgement, her senses, as she recoils at the idea of this confrontation. The information that’s undoubtedly about to be spilt. Soon, she’ll be shown as a fraud. Exposed. Revealed. Uncovered. Everything she’s worked towards, everything she’s worked against. She dreads whoever makes the next move, whoever asks the unforgivable question. Becky shudders, particularly at Bayley’s timid voice. She can tell it’s another way of the universe saying, “Fuck you.” Of course, it had to be Bayley who asked.

“Who are you?”

The woman’s eyes drift down to Becky, almost taking a step back with her eyebrows raising in bitter entertainment. Rhea does the same. The redhead just twists her neck away from her friends even more, focusing on her shallow breathing and the way her chest begins to feel sharp. Like a piece of shrapnel flew out from a nearby building and sliced into it. By now, she’s expecting the worst.

“Who are we?” a chuckle is heard, as if it’s friendly banter. “Wait… you mean, your little leader didn’t tell you? Well, that’s rude.”

“She doesn’t know you,” Charlotte replies matter-of-factly.

A little too matter-of-factly. Becky shifts her jaw in emotional distress, eyes closing with her chin bowed. She bites her inner cheek hard enough for it to bleed, sucking on the fresh wound and driving pain through that side of her face. She swallows hard when there’s a pause, knowing everyone’s eyes are on her. Charlotte’s, Sasha’s, Bayley’s, their enemies’. It causes her to look up shakily, daggers shot in the face of the women that demean her. The anger within her veins threatens to burst each bloodline. She can feel the pressure in her body, coiling and stretching out as her arms and legs feel heavy. Her anger is unmatched, gurgling higher when their opponents stare at her with such lightened, condescending faces. Their better-than-thou attitudes. Becky displays her anger. Anger at them, at the world, at the universe, at the situation. Most of all, at herself. They can tell, too.

The blonde woman smirks, then turns her attention back to Charlotte.

“Loyalty. I like that,” her eyes dart between Charlotte and Becky, then stay on the historian. “But I’m sorry to say she _does_ know us. She knows us real well,” she quirks an eyebrow at the redhead. “Don’t you, Becky? Care to refute?”

Her nose scrunches, nostrils flaring, and she still keeps her face away from Charlotte. Ocean eyes burn into her temple, branding it with a giant question mark. Becky can feel it drawing into her skin. She knows all of her partners are staring in her direction. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for an apology, maybe, or an explanation. Pleading for Becky to sincerely refute the claim, beyond anything. It makes her stomach ache and her heart shake in her chest.

“I really am hurt you didn’t talk an ounce about us,” the woman gestures between herself and Rhea. “I thought we got on quite well, those months. You know, until that last time. How’s your back, by the way?”

She stays quiet. She simply breathes and wishes she could close her eyes. Roll from the cliff, after that. Fall through the air, and feel weightless. All in hopes that the ground would swallow her whole once she hit sea level. Part of her thinks about it in terms of dying. In terms of joining Paige, like she believes she should’ve, back then. The other, fighting part of her thinks about it in a do-over sense. Like she’s wishing the world would let her go back in time, just to save them the experience of this trip. For a while now, she’s been starting to realize that it’s not worth it. The venture hasn’t been worth the pain, the headache, the heartbreak, being marooned, being shot at, being targeted and forced to kneel at the mercy of people who don’t give a damn. And, even if she thought that she, herself, deserved it all, she’d never believe that her friends do. Her teammates. Her partners. The people who’ve trusted her when they likely shouldn’t have. This encounter is only proving it. It’s likely changing their minds, spinning their heads around.

Becky Lynch hasn’t been open. Even after expressing how they should be honest, after the storm. She’s kept things harbored. Hidden away. No matter if she thought she was doing it to protect them, or if she was doing it in hopes that it would fade away. That it wouldn’t play into their fate. She was a fool to hope that just as much as they were to believe her.

Sadly, Becky can’t go back in time. They’re here now, knelt down with guns pointed at them, with their enemies licking their chops, and they can’t turn back now. Who knows what’s bound to happen, either. She gulps.

“What’s she talking about?” Sasha’s low-treading tone breaks Becky out of her thoughts, but the redhead can’t look at her.

She can’t face that disappointment when she already feels it radiating off of them. Her embarrassment prevents her from turning her head. A response doesn’t come. Hell, it doesn’t even form in her throat. Becky is all too focused on Charlotte’s simmering anger, louder than anyone else’s. She can see, from her peripherals, the historian’s jaw roll. With more silence, with more ignorance to the question, Bayley looks at a loss. Sasha’s features are stoic. They all want answers, and, by all means, Becky wonders if it’s suddenly her against the world. If she’s suddenly on her own.

“Tell them,” the words prod Becky, then fall deeper into a dangerous persona with severe punctuation. “Say. My. Name.”

Her truncated breaths exit her nostrils, Becky’s lips finally parting.

“Yes, Ms. Evans,” it’s scratchy once she speaks with sass, like her voice is being pried from her throat with rusty tweezers to show proper attention. “Ms. _Lacey_ Evans.”

It’s too familiar, and Becky hates it. The taste of bile climbs her throat, a wateriness taking its place. It’s like she’s flown years back, sitting in the dank, clammy room while waiting for Rhea’s boss to enter. It’s like she’s back to when she had to address Lacey as “Ms. Evans” or she’d be called out for disrespect. It’s like when she was a slave for the blonde woman. _God,_ she hates the feeling.

“Mhm,” a hum follows, and Lacey walks over to the other women. “See, your infamous treasure hunter here worked for us before you worked for her. She promised us she’d find Henry Avery’s lost treasure. Then, one day, she went missing.”

Lacey turns back to Becky. Approaching slowly, a silver handgun is suavely pulled from her belt. All four women stiffen, even more so when Lacey crouches down to be eye level with Becky.

“Poof, gone, off the radar. No more Becky Lynch,” she speaks softly, connivingly. “Well, wait a second… she didn’t just go _missing._ Why downplay it?” a laugh exits her throat. “We heard she _died_ in some freak accident. An avalanche, was it? But then, surprise, surprise, look who beat us to our own luau here on the island. I thought I felt someone tailing us back in Scotland. In the Madagascar mainland, too.”

No response.

“And I’m going to guess you didn’t gather your little friends here to help us. Instead, you’ve been a thorn in my side. Killing my men, stalling us,” the rant is delivered with raised eyebrows, nearly talking to herself while adjusting her gun. “Anything to say for yourself?”

The weapon is cocked. It makes the women shudder. All of them except for Becky.

“You don’t deserve that treasure,” the Irish woman warns. “Not after what you’ve done.”

“But you _do_ deserve it?” the gun’s barrel drags under Becky’s chin, raising it a fraction. “You’re just as filthy as we are. Maybe even more so.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh? That’s not nice,” Lacey pouts, then licks her lips. “It’s okay, I know you’re still bitter over the loss of your friend. Paige, was it?”

“Shut up,” it’s flat, low, even more of a warning than before.

“Sweet as ever,” a tutting noise is made with her tongue. “All that talent…” she stands up, moving her gun to Becky’s temple, “wasted on a quitter. Still, it’d be a shame to rid the world of it. Or…” the barrel is pushed further against her skull, Becky staring straight ahead with her nostrils flaring, “would it?”

Nearby, Charlotte is uneasy. It doesn’t help a damn when Lacey turns to her with a smile, either. Gun pointed at Becky, menacingly putting on a show. It’s like she’s reveling in being sadistic, and Charlotte’ eyes water while feeling sick. She’s certain that her face appears more pale, as well. The scene is shades of Lazarević all over again, and Lacey can tell she’s getting under the other blonde’s skin more than the others. Sasha, meanwhile, side-eyes Charlotte periodically whenever she sees the woman’s body language crumbling further. Wanting to crawl into a ball, quite frankly. It’s like she wishes to be dead to the world, both because of the sight, itself, and the memories it beholds. Even Becky has to stop herself from turning her head just enough to see Charlotte. Just enough to apologize again and again whether it’s through mouthing the words or pleading with her eyes. Instead, she swallows hard.

But it’s over. Flashing an abrupt smile, Lacey lets out an airy sigh, and she lowers the gun.

“Take her to the truck,” she instructs another set of men who stand behind her, making a distinct motion that the women notice, though can’t decipher. “We have work to do.”

They all wonder what she’s doing, how they’re bound to get Becky in the truck. It’s not long before they get their answer, and, by then, they wish they looked away. Their swirling questions are answered within the blink of an eye, after two of the men round Becky and stand at her back. Because, just as the hunter fully looks toward her teammates for the first time, just as she goes to give them a shimmery-eyed look of apology via monumental sincerity, she’s hit in the back of the head at the precise and targeted angle.

Her limbs tingle, and she falls forward with a thump.

The world fades out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatta load of crap 'n stuff. 
> 
> There's a lot to unpack here, honestly. I've had this chapter sitting in my folder for quite a bit, and it still baffles me. Mostly because I managed to write such an action-esque scene that was seriously intimidating. Not to pat myself on the back. It's fun to watch if you can find the video on YouTube, just search "Uncharted 4, chapter 15, tower collapse." 
> 
> This... was definitely the climax of the story. I'd say the smaller, first climax was them slamming into the island, but this is certainly The One. It's going to set off a lot of things, like Becky coming to terms with the idea that she's not invincible, and she can't hold everything inside forever. She's been narrowly escaping situations, but not anymore. After this, she doesn't want to, either. She'll force herself to come clean with a lot, and she'll be able to work better -- no matter where she ends up in this wonderful (read: yikes-worthy) fic world. 
> 
> So, away from all of that... I know I'm back pretty soon. It wasn't that long, was it? I lost track of time. It felt like a month, but I know I'm likely wrong. Anyway, I have -- after this one -- three chapters written, and I'll be working on another. I'll forewarn y'all: this section of chapters will be five-updates long, and then I'll break again. It's another little bridge, but trust me you won't want to miss any of it. This is probably the most important section of chapters in the entire story. Again, it's just getting a bit more technical and detail-oriented, so my work has to be combed through four times before I feel it's eligible to be posted. Need all the right portrayals, y'know?
> 
> Everything aside, I hope this was a nice update in terms of getting a start on those details. And I hope the cliffhanger isn't too much of a bother until I next update. By the way, for that one, you're DEFINITELY going to want that snack and drink. It's... A Lot. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, as always!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!
> 
> IMPORTANT: I cannot stress this enough... for the list of possible TWs re: this chapter (specifically, as it's heaviest among the rest), please see my story's tags. I won't list them right here at the risk of spoiling those whom the TWs don't concern, however those who wish to be in the know, I've included them in the story tags. Those who're fine, head south. I want the best for you all. 
> 
> Either way, may I suggest a snack and beverage before you continue? Seriously, I implore you to get something. 
> 
> Have fun (read: good luck)!

MON., 5:02 P.M.

* * *

A slam is heard. Then another.

There’s a ten-second pause before a sliding noise comes to fruition, followed by her legs thumping against the ground. Becky doesn’t feel it. She only has the wherewithal to acknowledge the sound of hollow rubber from the heels of her boots meeting packed dirt. It’s the only thing to cause a breakthrough in her wary hearing.

The faint crushing of dried leaves and twigs comes into focus. The dragging of them, too. A pair of gruffy voices are next to permeate the filter over her eardrums, but not wholly. They still mimic the likes of listening to someone speak above water while oneself is drowning in it. Her nose crinkles.

A small, strangled whimper exits her throat as she awakens, though hardly coherent. Her thumping head rolls back and forth, flopping from one shoulder to the other. That’s when the feeling comes back to her arms, albeit only enough to feel they’re outstretched above her head. To feel her blood paving its way downwards through her bruised limbs. Only enough to feel herself being dragged by harsh, aged grips, more specifically. Becky knows it’s not a friendly encounter.

She keeps her head low, bowed between her arms, lifelessly, as she blinks her eyes open. Damp, crimson hair sways in front of her face, a curtain in front of her half-assed vision. The sunlight stings when it manages to reach her pupils. It makes her eyes slam shut again before they’re lidded when she forces them back open. Becky examines her boots covered in crusted mud, being dragged along the ground with her heels attracting twigs and leaves in their respective paths. She takes the stray pieces of foliage with her until they let go once more, free of her dead weight as two skinny, disturbed trails of dirt are created in her wake. Beyond that, when she can see more clearly, she notices that they’re moving away from a tactical vehicle backed into a makeshift parking spot. An army-green pick-up truck, currently open-ended with its tailgate lowered. There, her backpack leans against its right wall, waiting for her to return.

Becky makes a face at how uncomfortable she feels. How stiff her arms are by the position. How dirt builds against the seat of her pants as she’s dragged through it. How every inch of her body aches due to the beating it took however-long ago. Furthermore, mentally speaking, how she’s being pulled along the ground like a dead carcass waiting to meet her ultimate fate. How she has no idea where they’re taking her, what they want with her, or why she doesn’t see anyone else around. Overall, she feels soulless, yet gradually regains awareness that she is, indeed, still alive.

Around her is a jungle setting. Not overly dense, but following the bend of a clearing as sunlight streams through a layer of trees before the vegetations’ second layer vanishes. It’s significant. It notifies Becky that they’re still on a cliff, likely not far from where she was captured.

 _No,_ her heart jumps into her throat. _They._ From where _they_ were captured.

She swallows hard and notices that her throat‘s overly dry. Her nose scrunches at the pain, face contorting, but she still pretends to be out cold. She has to cater to their assumption that she’s still unconscious. If she’s patient, if she waits for the right time, she won’t be in their custody for much longer. More importantly, she can find the others. Even if they’re pissed at her, disappointed, _done_ with her, she has to find them. She owes them that much.

_“Come in.”_

Rhea’s unmistakable voice shakes the radio on one soldiers’ belt. The Irish woman has to resist growling. Her body comes to a halt, feeling herself sway forward before her weight settles in place. The man’s grip is adjusted to take the call, loosely hanging onto her with his less-dominant hand. Becky bites her inner cheek, tasting the wound she created earlier.

“Go for squadron three.”

_“Where are you?”_

“Approximately thirty seconds out of the western camp. Heading in now.”

_“Good. Secure our prime hostage in the interrogation quarters.”_

Becky frowns. She twists her head to the left. Just barely, just enough to see a few, green tarps lining the side of a rounded clearing. Her eyes stay mostly closed, making sure to appear dazed. From what she can see, they’ve set up a miniature encampment consisting of various tents. It causes her to wonder how long they’ve been here on the island. How many soldiers there are, more dreadfully. Not to mention how “western camp” implies that there’s more than one. Her stomach sours, then grows even weaker once Rhea’s voice comes through again.

_“We’ll be returning soon after we get these two set.”_

_Two?_ Which two? Where’s the third? Her blood pressure climbs, Becky carefully swallowing her fear.

 _“As for Lynch, do_ not _underestimate her, and make sure you keep her alive. We need her for when we reach Avery’s mansion.”_

This time, she has to stifle a laugh. Good luck to them when they don’t have her. God, after all these years, Rhea is still a sorry excuse for a treasure hunter. She’s always been a rough scavenger, more than anything. An assassin-hunter hybrid. Intelligent in basic areas, just not historically speaking. Technicalities, Becky muses. Not important right now, she internally lectures herself.

Suddenly, her eyes fly open when there’s an explosion in the distance. A puff of smoke shooting upwards into the sky, miles away. Becky swears an assortment of crackling follows.

“What the hell was that?” the soldier’s radio is lowered, both men stalled in place.

Before she loses her opportunity, Becky digs her heels into the dirt for some leverage, pulling the two, unprepared men over her shoulders in one, swift motion. They fly forward onto their stomachs, a pair of grunts accompanying, landing with a solid thud as she’s broken free. In the process, Becky doesn’t take pause before kicking herself away right as their grips release her wrists, valiantly scooting backwards along the dirt.

“You are _not_ getting away,” one grabs onto her boot, and she slams her other heel down on his fingers.

Her enemy yelps in agony, Becky even cringing when she hears the snap of two joints. It’s merely a bigger incentive to get moving, finally gaining some traction on her backwards kicking. Her palms are placed flat on the ground, pushing forward onto her feet and initially stumbling before she’s able to move faster. Contrary to her original belief, the aching in her limbs don’t stunt her progress too much. She thought, for sure, her speed would be at a critically low level. Then again, it’s no surprise that the adrenaline of being chased gives oneself the motive to push through any torment previously endured.

The lone soldier follows her stride by stride, her vision blurring on instant. Her legs gain rapid speed as she breaks into a sprint, carefully running across the uneven dirt, leaves, and fallen branches toward the truck. Meanwhile, Becky paces her breathing, refusing to look back and run herself into any problems. She has to focus. She has to reach her backpack, then run for her life.

“Get back here!”

The metallic sound of a gun being slid from the man’s belt puts her on higher alert. Without slowing herself, desperate fingers reach down, only to remember that she’d lost her own firearm during the altercation with Rhea. The memory makes her eyes roll halfheartedly, gritting her teeth. All she’s left with is her grapple — which, generally speaking, is better than nothing, she figures.

Nevertheless, she forces a steely, desperate expression while winding along the curved path to the truck. Exhaustion creeps into her legs as she continues, but the aforementioned adrenaline courses through her veins to keep her going. Even more so once she hears the cocking of a gun behind her. Her mouth tumbles open. Short breaths come out, sucking in sharp spurts of air while finally glancing over her shoulder. Both soldiers are now gaining on her, fifteen feet back.

“Stop running!” an assailant demands, and, for a second, she smirks.

It’s as if they sincerely believe she’ll listen. No way, Becky thinks. Rounding the clearing’s bend, a glimpse of the truck’s tailgate comes into view. With a misplaced sigh, Becky thanks every higher being while hoping that she makes it. She _has_ to make it. She just has to. Still, there’s no doubt they won’t stop chasing her anytime soon, not until she’s back in their clutches, and they have a gun that’s ready to be fired at will. Part of her wishes they’d shoot, just so they’d have to face Rhea’s wrath, but it’s a short-lived desire. A spiteful desire, too. Truly, she knows that’d do no good for her friends.

“This is your final warning!” the equipped man shouts.

Determined, brown eyes zone in on her muddy backpack. She’s as close as possible, feet away. One, two, three more steps until her hand latches onto its strap. With success, she pulls it over the truck’s wall in one motion, all without stopping. Becky smiles as it’s thrown over her shoulders messily, hardly paying attention to what she’s doing but enough to secure the bag on her back without creating a hazard.

Now, she has no idea where she’s going. Now, she’s simply running in hopes that they either give up, or she finds a quick way out. An obstacle to stop them, but something she can sneak through. A jump, if possible. Hell, she’d even settle for a mudslide. A rockslide. A dive into a river, at this point. God, there has to be _something._ Panic begins to bite at her bones. An invisible mallet pounds against her temples. Her heart races, threatening to beat through the cavity of her chest. Her legs are bound to snap off, too. Her arms vibrate with bright, rushing blood. Most of all, her vision blurs even further as she gradually treads down a shallow hill, all while not knowing when the trail will end. _Where_ it’ll end, or _how._ They’re on a cliff for fuck’s sake━

A gunshot is sounded, the crack bouncing off the trees, and her eyes widen. Its sound is a telltale sign of her chances thinning. A telltale revelation, or something she didn’t want to admit to herself prior to it being heard. The noise begs her to stop running. Her common sense does, as well. Pleading with her to raise her arms, slow her feet, and wait for them to drag her back to camp where they’ll treat her like a fugitive. Where Rhea will catch wind of her escape attempt and treat her worse than she already has. Where Lacey will barge in and hold her at gunpoint, perhaps slip a single bullet into the chamber before playing Russian roulette with Becky’s mind. With her dwindling psyche, and willpower to keep herself sane for the sake of her loved ones.

Giving up isn’t an option, Becky thinks. Her teeth bare, and she begins to dodge everything yet nothing at the same time. She runs sporadically, winding this way and that in case they continue to aim for her. By all means, her motions are jerky and odd, looking like she has no idea how to follow the dirt path she’s running upon, but it works. Because, within the next millisecond, a bullet lodges itself into the ground she tread only a step ago, then another. They’re officially shooting for her legs. Her ankles, more like.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she growls, forehead creased while the man reloads behind her.

This time, a bullet whizzes past her ear.

“What are you _doing?”_ his partner stresses. “We’re not supposed to kill her!”

“Then _you_ do something to catch her!”

The tip of her tongue is bitten between her teeth. Becky smiles deviously, excited by their distress in regards to her escape. Good, she thinks.

But all expressions stop in an instant. A severe halt, stopping her movements so abruptly that dirt turns into dust as her boots slide against the ground, and gravel topples down the edge of the cliff that she now stares at. Her mouth slacks, observing the twenty-plus-foot drop beneath the toes of her shoes. The dead-end she’s run to, with the soldiers gaining on her. She’s missed the curve of the path where they drove up. She’s overlooked how it’s covered in leaves, hidden beneath their camouflage, and her cockiness has lead her to run straight through a line of trees acting as a natural guardrail. There’s still time to turn back, she tells herself. There’s still time to get a move on while they try to catch up, lost behind a wall of foliage.

And she’s about to do just that. She’s close to turning and regaining her speed on shaky legs, however it’s all over in an instant. It’s all a loss, and it’s too late.

Her fate is sealed once her heel shifts on the ground. Unstable ground, that is. The sound of roots being yanked from their soil, the rock beneath a thick layer of dirt crumbles under the new weight. At least a yard’s span of cliffside falls without warning, and Becky goes with it. She doesn’t even have time to see the soldiers’ expressions before they’re hidden behind the cliff’s surface, and she’s tumbling down a curved, rocky cliffside with clouds of dusty dirt poofing into the air whenever she hits at a new angle. An assortment of disgruntled noises come from the redhead as she’s battered by the ground, her mind not catching up when it’s spun around like she’s been put in a blender.

It isn’t until she spins down a ramp-resembling slope that she’s aware of being flung through the air. By then, it’s another case of it being too late. She has no way to prepare herself for the impending fall, and it’s severe. At least she has the first instinct of cradling her own head, but it doesn’t do much good.

In the end, she lands face-down onto a solid slab of rock, arms outstretched above her head with her wrists dangling off it. Limp, and completely unmoving. Her knees throb, her forehead stings, her lips burn, and her ribs whine from the strain she’s endured all day. With that said, her brain has trouble catching up to where she’s lying, where she’s face down, where she’s dazed. Her eyes won’t focus, either. Her ears can hardly make out the chirping and cuckooing that’s gifted them throughout this trip, wildlife also shaking the trees above her. The only thing she’s aware of is the trickling of a shallow stream nearby, and a low humming in the distance.

Becky tries lifting her head to look around, eyes flickering and unable to zone in on anything. The world spins around her. It’s like she’s not really there, anyway, and can’t tell if she’s truly looking at anything. The struggle is too much. Instead, she turns her attention to her heartbeat, sulking in the constant, hard thumps that come in a rhythm, and her reddened cheek smushes against the flattened piece of slate.

Not exactly the image of heroics she was aiming for when she broke free from the soldiers. Not the moment of triumph she had planned when she escaped. Not what she pictured at all, in terms of a bittersweet reunion when she broke into the neighboring camp and freed her friends. Fuck, she should’ve taken the truck they had, or tried to confiscate a soldier’s gun. Her adrenaline would’ve allowed to get a few, solid shots in before her wrists began to shake. She knows it. Becky’s eyes squeeze together tightly.

There are so many things she’d do over, spanning from just now to the very beginning of this. To years back, even.

The Irish woman painfully curls her body inward, recoiling into herself, in protection against the universe. A tear trickles down her nose, onto the rock. Becky’s tongue runs along her teeth, making sure they’re all there. She then licks her bottom lip, tasting fresh blood as a stinging sensation makes her wince. Her neck moves slightly when she goes to shake her head, but not much. A deep breath gradually leaves her lungs, and the fuzzy feeling in her head grows stronger. Too much to ignore, too much to tuck away, or to pretend means nothing. She can’t escape the damage now.

Soon, she can’t fight the exhaustion, nor the pounding against the inner walls of her skull. Those invisible mallets against her temples. Within seconds, Becky’s body goes even more limp, meshing with the rock, and her senses begin to fade.

Nearby, the humming grows louder before it stays at a single decibel. There’s a creak. Then, rushing steps cross the stream with splashes accompanying at a fast, desperate rate.

Becky can’t even feel the gentle grip on her wrist’s pulse point before the world goes black, and she’s out again.

 

* * *

 MON., 5:46 P.M.

* * *

_“Do you ever wonder if we’re in over our heads with this one?”_

_She turns to the source of the question. Paige is lying on the prison cell’s disgusting floor, staring at the pipe-riddled ceiling with her hands folded over her stomach. Her ankles are crossed. A casual position, Becky thinks, but she can sense that the dark-haired woman is thinking deeply. Like she’s reconsidering their place in the world, entirely. The sight is honestly endearing, but also confusing. It’s coming out of nowhere, quite frankly, so add “concerning” to the list. Becky initially frowns, but the expression is broken once Paige turns her head to look at her roommate ━ her best friend, the person she’d been allowed to bunk with out of the “goodness” of the prison board’s heart. Paige waits for an answer, seeing the subtle pang of befuddlement strewn within the redhead’s features. Until a caught off-guard laugh breaks through it, plus a shrug that’s hardly even there._

_“You say that as if you never wondered it before,” Becky responds with a tinge of hurt in her voice, also a nervous chuckle, moving her legs to the side of the mattress so her toes press to the floor._

_“So, you do?” Paige’s eyebrows raise, and her partner’s fingers twitch against the bed frame._

_Becky visibly bites her inner cheek. A wave of fresh thinking comes over her, recalling their endless days of running through various countries in search of treasure. What they’d earned, what they’d missed out on, what they wish they could re-do. She’d be lying if she said Avery’s hunt wasn’t the biggest of the big. The venture that gave them a run for their bountiful money. The one that made them think twice about what they’re doing and how they’re spending their waning days. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit to the strain it put on her mind, how it got them shoved into a prison where they don’t belong. Where they don’t fit in. Depending on how you look at it, that is._

_She swallows hard, and breathes out an airy sigh while slipping from the bed. Her butt softly lands on the floor, next to Paige, as she answers, “I’ve wondered that every day since we first started researching the treasure.”_

_“It’s not just me, then,” her voice is hoarse, from what Becky can tell._

_Her eyes glisten, as well. She’s hurting. Regretful, even. Becky’s heart swells at the sight, in the worst of ways. It aches, then falters. It makes her flash Paige a slanted smile, something conflicted, knowing she’d never own up to her mental wounds even though she should. Even though she should open herself up, considering how exposed they are in the cell, anyway._

_The Irish woman decides against questioning it, or digging into her mind. She knows better than that. Instead, she looks behind her, then eases herself downward so she can lie flat next to her partner. It’s only when she squishes an inch or two closer that she’s settled, Paige using the newfound proximity to her advantage in leaning her temple against the curve of Becky’s shoulder. The redhead otherwise mimics her best friend’s position, ankles crossed and hands folded as they stare at the yellow, stained ceiling with duct-taped pipes and thick wires._

_“After this… after we find it or after we give up trying to,” the dark-haired woman shakes her head, tone fragile, “I think I’m done.”_

_“Yeah?” it’s asked quietly, with no emotion._

_“Yeah,” she’s serious. “It’s just too much. Is it really worth it? Worth… being thrown into places like this, or nearly dying? Because, I have to be honest with you, I don’t think so anymore.”_

_The soreness in her chest spreads to her shoulders. The secondhand reconsideration punches her in the windpipe. Sure, she’d been thinking the same for a while, and, sure, she’d been flipping back and forth with her stance on its traumatic outcome, but hearing it from Paige ━ someone so explosive, so used to ignoring the universe’s spite ━ just makes it so many more times real. The fear, the apprehension, the nervousness about what’s to come. What may happen to them, in the end. And they both know it likely will never be good. The universe hasn’t been kind to them for a while, except for in the arms of each other. That’s the only thing that’s gotten Becky by, at least._

_“You’re right.”_

_Paige uses her peripherals to glance at Becky. Enough to see the hardening of her jaw, how she pushes her lower lip outward like she’s close to crying. She didn’t mean to hurt her, or cause emotion to spark through her body. Honesty can be rough, she supposes. Especially when both people are thinking it, yet neither wants to say it until something simply… breaks._

_She licks her lips. Her fingers unclasp from atop her stomach, and she loops the arm closest to Becky through the bend of the redhead’s elbow. After, she leans closer, not caring what the guards have lectured them about time and time again. She’s dealt with worse. Becky has dealt with worse. As long as they have each other…_

_Her throat grows sore and she swallows the lump in it. Becky does the same, feeling Paige rub her cheek against her shoulder._

_“You and me,” Becky tries to smile, and Paige lifts her head to look at her. “After all this… it’s time to hang up the ole climbing boots.”_

_A laugh exits her nostrils, leaning back down to cuddle the woman’s shoulder again._

_“Retirement,” Paige muses with a dramatic, business-like voice._

_They share a healthier laugh._

_“Yeah,” Becky licks her lips with a bittersweet facade, “retirement.”_

 

 

A tiny whimper is pulled from Becky’s throat.

Charlotte’s eyes lift to where the redhead lies, about eight feet away against the rough, cave wall. No movement follows. It eases the historian’s alert, pushing her anxiety back into her stomach as it waits to return when the next sound comes. Like it’s done repeatedly, so far. Either way, even as silence settles like a blanket, she can’t help but periodically glance up to see Becky’s cold body lying against the stone, head propped with her backpack set as a shoddy pillow. Charlotte purses her lips and then seals them, shaking her head partly and refocusing on the book in her lap.

She sits cross-legged beneath the shallow cave’s mouth, flipping through the fragile book she’d taken from Libertalia’s pub. Her forehead creases in thought as she reads what she can, some phrases and words scribbled frantically. She pinches her bottom lip between two fingers.

From what she’s gathered, it was written by a common citizen living in Libertalia. Someone who’d eventually take part in the rebellion against Avery and his men. It details his personal thoughts, his family activities alongside his expecting wife, and ultimately his obscure notes leading up to the war. Overall, it’s incredible. She can practically feel his outrage as it jumps off the pages, his sense of urgency in regards to getting his wife away from the scene while also waging war against Avery. She can feel his upset regarding Avery’s betrayal, how their money was taken without notice, how their pension was cut. Charlotte sighs on his behalf. They had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Even if they did, it didn’t matter.

Another whine is heard, this one elongaged and disturbed, but still no movement. Charlotte’s posture straightens and she frowns at the obvious discomfort. She frowns at the miniature pout on the redhead’s face, the dirt and marks across her features, the soot still on her arms from the burning tower, the faint red mark staining her neck after hours.

She recalls how she found Becky. How she watched the Irish woman tumble down a cliff before being thrown through the air, landing lifelessly in the distance. Luckily, courtesy of the thick bushes hiding the slab of rock known as Becky’s landing pad, she didn’t get to witness the actual ending. She’s not sure she would’ve been able to stomach it. In fact, she could hardly stomach the sight she approached, once she found the hunter with her cheek squished against the slate. On the cusp of death. Charlotte swallows the disgusting taste in her mouth, pushing the thought away.

Before the scene, she had been driving through the jungle. Weaving through the trees and making her own roads in the process. She’d stolen a Jeep from the camp to which she was taken after being split from a fired-up Sasha and an equally fighting Bayley. After that, after their shouts and scuffling faded into the distance, she didn’t see them again.

Despite her mounting questions and panic, she knew she couldn’t stay captive in the enemy’s camp. Not only because she had to find the others, but because her mental health wouldn’t allow for a callback to what happened years ago. She refused. So, with a bit of elbow grease in escaping the clutches of a single, burly soldier, she snatched a gun from a nearby table, and shot at their array of kerosene lamps ready to be distributed to each sleeping quarter. Much to her luck, a few crates of dynamite sat dangerously close, and those sealed the nearby soldiers’ fate.

The distraction ━ not to mention the forming smokescreen ━ was enough to earn her a few minutes of planning. She’d snuck around the camp quietly, masked enemies with automatic weapons walking through the fog with ease in order to find their hostage. The toes of her boots dug into the ground as she rounded each tent, shuffled through the trees, and avoided every twig that would perhaps give away her location. Her breathing was shallow, eyes peeled with her hands ready to retaliate against anyone who stood in her path. One way or another, she was getting out of there.

Finally, her frantic gaze landed upon three taupe, open-topped Jeeps sitting in a row, all waiting for her to pick one off and drive into the jungle. Unscathed, unfollowed, unnoticed. She’d be free.

Her travels were brief before she found Becky. She’d slammed on the gas as soon as she could, driving from the camp prior to them detecting her movements, making sure to put as much distance between them and herself as possible. Within an instant, the vehicle was driving at a solid fifty miles per hour down a hill, wind in her hair and cooling her damp skin. The fresh air was inhaled with enjoyment, all while keeping her grip firmly on the wheel’s leather.

It wasn’t until she saw the lifeless body falling down the hill that she slowed down, and her eyes widened once she caught the flash of red hair that notified her of who it was. “Flash” being the operative word, as once she saw it, it was gone in a blink. She knew the outcome wasn’t going to be good. Puttering around a thick patch of foliage, the Jeep crept up to the stream cautiously. Charlotte looked around to make sure no one followed her, then peered upward to make sure Becky wasn’t being stalked, either.

There was no one in sight. Only the sound of chirping birds filled the location, and the trickling water. By all accounts, the scenery provided a much-needed calming atmosphere, but it certainly opposed the sight before her: a near-lifeless Becky, face pressed against the stone, her hair a mess over her features, arms hanging off the edge with her legs bent slightly. In any other circumstance, the position would lead Charlotte to believe she was simply napping, and maybe she’d smile at the peaceful vibe. It was all too misleading, however. With a fall like that, Charlotte knew the relaxation was against Becky’s will.

Not wasting time, Charlotte opened the door and rushed over to the other woman. She checked her wrist’s pulse, choking out a small sigh of relief when she detected a faint beating. Delicate fingers then pushed red hair backwards, peeling it from her face so she could see the damage. Becky’s eyes were closed. They weren’t even flickering, which would lead Charlotte to believe she was trying to wake herself up. There was no movement at all. Even when the historian rubbed her back in firm circles, hands running along her biceps trying to stir her, nothing. Becky was lost in her own head, fallen into a pit of darkness that Charlotte wasn’t sure she’d awaken from whether it be today, tomorrow, next week, next month, so forth. She _still_ doesn’t know. The only relief that transpired once Charlotte felt her pulse was due to the sound of a deep breath being casted outwards. Then another. The blonde could tell her partner was trying to recuperate, however lost in her own mind she was. She knew she was breathing, and that’s what mattered. That, alone, made Charlotte match the exhale, breathing out in comfort.

 _“Okay, I’m gonna pick you up now,”_ she talked to Becky despite her being out cold. _“It might hurt a little.”_

Charlotte caught the waver in her own voice. The pain in it, and the self-destruction. Her pessimism was overrunning her optimism, prodding at it and saying that Becky was on the brink of passing. The brink of dying, right before her eyes. Right beneath her fingertips. It only clouded her vision as she wrapped her arm around Becky’s waist, other arm resting around Charlotte’s shoulders. Before it caused them both to fall into the stream, she blinked them away. Nothing would stop her from getting Becky to safety. With fresh eyes, she carried on through the short walk, opening the side door and sliding the treasure hunter into it. Her body was next propped against the seat.

A pause followed, a round of hesitation Charlotte hadn’t planned for, and she rubbed a gentle thumb beneath the woman’s lip, wiping some dry blood away from the source. Yet again, the sting of distress nipped at her. Her head shook it away, the Jeep’s door creaking before slamming shut.

 _“You’re gonna be okay,”_ Charlotte reassured the unconscious body once she slipped into the driver’s seat and closed herself in.

Again, no answer. She wasn’t expecting one, anyway.

The hunter’s head appeared heavy, slacking to one side in a way that was sure to result in a stiff neck. Charlotte’s heart fell another time. The simple sight was enough to warrant her nails digging into the material of the steering wheel, raising her chin and taking three, deep breaths that would hopefully clear her eyes. If Becky could hardly stay upright without the vehicle even moving, Charlotte was sure her body wouldn’t stay settled when it was. Not even with her seatbelt, and that’s something Charlotte wasn’t taking a risk on. Additionally, if they were to be shot at, if they were to be found by the militia and targeted, a parallel to years back, Becky would never make it. She’d be a sitting duck, and Charlotte would have to watch bullets pierce right through her.

_No._

Clearing her mind, the historian wasted no time in adjusting her partner’s body again. She did so carefully, kind hands turning her torso and lying her down. Red hair sprawled across her right thigh, body twisted with Becky’s knees and elbows bent. Her former peacefulness returned, and Charlotte pleaded with herself to believe that she’s just sleeping. Napping, like she should be. For a second or two, Charlotte even catered to herself to help that belief. Brushing her fingers through bright hair, gingerly toying with the strands. Tracing her middle finger around the casing of Becky’s ear, then drifting the back of three fingers along her neck. Despite its intimacy, its tenderness and absolute sentiment, her throat began to hurt at the feeling, and a tear dropped onto her free thigh.

 _“You’re gonna be okay,”_ she repeated. _“I promise you will.”_

The shallow cave wasn’t too far away. In fact, it took two whole minutes of driving before it came into view. Hidden behind a line of trees, acting like a natural fence to shield them from an enemy’s view. Charlotte stalled the Jeep, left hand resting on the wheel as her eyes scoped out the outline of what resembled a bowl tipped onto its side. Deep enough to take refuge, shallow enough to get fresh air. It was their best bet, and she wasn’t taking a chance of being caught in the open by any of the soldiers they’d faced earlier.

Without a word, without a mere piece of comfort or a whisper, Charlotte carefully pulled Becky from the car and, this time, fully picked her up. _Carried_ her. The woman actually curled into her, and a smile curved her lips. While walking, as she got lost in her own musings, the gesture made her snicker. More specifically, the image of the treasure hunter quirking an eyebrow at the position was a lot to admire. Bridal style. Not necessarily Becky’s aesthetic, Charlotte presumes, but something tells her that the redhead would allow it.

Her head was carefully laid onto her backpack once Charlotte slipped the book from its compartment. Anything to pass the time while she waited for Becky to stir. Even before that, she’d settled the Irish woman in a comfortable position, hands on her stomach, head turned slightly, before walking back to the parked Jeep. There, she’d rummage through its glovebox in hopes of finding something helpful. Which, quickly, she did: an emergency medical kit and a gun, both loaded and perfectly ready for use. They’d be two necessities that eased Charlotte’s worries.

Leaving the firearm behind, she snatched the white box of medical supplies back to the cave. Upon entering, the subtle sight of Becky’s chest rising and falling made her stop in her tracks. She’d been telling herself they she should tend to the woman’s injuries before she woke up, before she was there to bear the inevitable pain of it, just to make sure they begin healing. That notion was derailed within the span of a millisecond. Disturbing Becky wasn’t something her heart would accept. She decided against it.

The most prominent injuries were to her forehead and her lips. Currently, both remain bleeding the same as which they were when Charlotte first found her. It makes the historian bite her inner cheek in wonderance if she made the wrong call in waiting around to clean them. By now, they should be clotted, at least mostly, however she supposes that Becky’s unconscious state could slow the progress. Her body is fighting a lot within such a short span. Plus the mounting exhaustion, like from her sleepless night before their morning venture came. Regret settles in her veins, lips parting as her forehead creases.

She doesn’t have much time to sulk in it, however. With another groan comes movement. Movement that she hadn’t heard for the whole extent of her reunion ━ for lack of a better word ━ with Becky. Charlotte all but throws the book to the side, a partial gasp tripping from between open lips, rushing over to the other woman whose eyes close tightly and fists ball by her sides. She’s still in pain, but she’s stirring.

Right as she’s kneeling by Becky’s side, Charlotte lays a delicate hand on her arm, a soft “Hey” trying to wake her more.

Tears flood to her eyes and she can’t stop them. The sight of how banged up her partner looks. The sight of the sandpaper wound blemishing her right cheek, like she’d slid across the stone and got burnt by it. The sight of the knick on her forehead, blood trickled downward until it dried. The sight of the hunter’s bloody lips, chapped beneath but the wound still fresh enough to drip along the crack of her closed mouth.

Above anything, her pain is due to the sight of Becky trying to ward something off, like a distanced memory, or a nightmare, or simply the stained recollections of what’s happened in recent hours. It all brings heavier tears to the blonde’s eyes, and she wipes them away with the back of her hand. Charlotte wishes she could wave those memories away, make them disappear, or scare off whatever haunts the other woman on a regular basis. Realistically, she settles for gently brushing the backs of her fingers along Becky’s cheek, feeling her soft skin and hoping it rouses her brain.

Brown eyes flutter once, twice, three times, all before closing again. They roll back into her head, eyelids too weighted to be torn open just yet. Charlotte stays patient, smiling gently and coaxing her awake. A rising struggle ensues, Becky’s head shaking with her features crinkling, though vaguely sensing fingertips dragging along her face. The tickling sensation causes her to focus a tad more, just enough to see a speck of blonde hair in front of her face. Immediately, her heart jumps into her throat when she’s startled.

_Lacey._

Her body jumps forward away from her backpack, palms slapping onto the stone beside her body, but Charlotte’s hands are warily placed on the fronts of her shoulders.

“Easy, easy,” the historian relaxes her, cooing gently.

Becky seems to register who she is, judging by the way her eyes freeze in what appears to be a childish, saddened amazement. Charlotte’s tiny smile remains, giving her a reassuring “It’s just me” as Becky allows herself to be guided back down into a lying position.

Charlotte shifts closer, her lips parting in distress as the hunter frowns. Becky stares at her, features settled into acute disbelief. Her eyes shimmer equally as much, and the historian feels her lower lip quivering before she has to seal them together.

“Charlotte?” enough strength is gained to rasp out her name, the blood on her lips prominent when she speaks. “I━I thought they took you.”

Bigger relief washes over Charlotte when she hears the other woman’s voice, no matter how strained. It’s enough to bring a lovable smile to her face.

“They did. But they couldn’t hold me,” she confirms lightly. “And, by the looks of it, they couldn’t hold you, either.”

A breathy laugh comes from Becky, resembling an exhale.

“No one can tie me down,” the half-assed joke is muttered while she tries to sit up, labored from her throat, but it falls short with the pain she’s in.

“Relax for a few,” the instruction is coddling, gentle and sweet with her thumb drawing circles on her partner’s arm. “There’s too much stress on your body right now.”

“Yeah, there’s stress _in_ it, too,” Becky winces, being helped up to a sitting position when Charlotte realizes she won’t give up. “Where’d they take you?”

“An encampment, just east of here,” she points vaguely, hands then set in her lap. “Sounds like they have checkpoints set up all over the island. I overheard they were taking you to the one closest to New Devon, and they brought me to the one nearest the treasury. Albeit my time there was brief.”

“Sasha and Bayley?”

“Don’t know,” Charlotte offers a slanted expression. “I presume they’re being kept together solely because that woman didn’t find them much of a threat. She wanted you and I. They must’ve done their research on my past because somehow they knew I’ve studied history for a good chunk of my life,” she recalls overhearing their instructions. “They figured I’d be of ‘greater use,’ so they pulled me away from Sasha and Bayley after they took you. I haven’t seen them since.”

She takes another look at Becky before turning around and crawling over to the medical kit.

“If they weren’t in trouble before, they are now that we’re gone,” Becky slams her eyes shut. “This is all my fault.”

Charlotte can’t deny it. Her back is turned, anyway. The compact, white box is gathered before she crawls back to where Becky now attempts to heave herself upwards.

“We have to━ _agh_ ━get them,” she shudders at the pain during her efforts, but Charlotte stops her with a firm hand on her forearm.

Their eyes lock, and Becky can tell she’s pleading. She settles, prevented from moving.

“I don’t think they’ll be separated from each other, and, either way, Sasha won’t let anything happen to Bayley,” they’re words of comfort, but Becky feels anything _but_ comforted. “Like I said, _you_ need to take it easy right now. You fell at least twenty feet, and got knocked out for half an hour. Relax a little,” her voice is small and a tint raspy, benign with her fingers reaching up to clean a smudge of dirt off the Irish woman’s cheek.

Becky stares beyond her, at the foliage past the cave’s threshold. Tears brim along the edges of her eyes.

Charlotte’s throat bobs when she swallows her secondhand guilt, blinking in deliberation before opening the medical kit. The subtle pop gains the redhead’s attention, though not earning any expression of fear or acceptance. It’s like she’s simply… _there._ Charlotte ignores her wandering eyes. How she plays with her fingers, her chipped nails, in energy to distract herself. Instead, Charlotte focuses on the array of bandages and ointments set before her. The inner kits used for stitches with instructions on the back, the two-by-two inch squares of gauze. She unwraps a package of them, wiggling it between her fingers to loosen it just a hair.

Her butt scoots along the stone so she can get closer, raising the pad to Becky’s lips and timidly brushing the surface. Brown eyes slam shut, feeling the cut on her lip as a likely result of biting it while falling. Most of the blood comes off with ease, turning the pad a dark pink before Charlotte can view the gash without obstruction. To get a better look, she reaches forward and gently holds onto the woman’s lip, leaning close and seeing that it’s not severe. Much to her happiness, it’s already healing. Charlotte’s shoulders relax.

Her thumb rubs along Becky’s busted lip, her own mouth opening a crack. She feels the cut without disturbing it, treating the damaged skin with care and affection. Becky can almost taste the sentiment. The intimacy in the gesture. She revels in it for a moment, but she can tell it’s also a moment of self-indulgence that makes Charlotte’s mind twist. A flash of sorrow shades her vibrant eyes, and her thumb stops moving.

Realization sinks in, and her posture slouches. Realization about what’s happened. How Becky lied to them. How, through their time here and even before that, she’s pretended that she didn’t know the people that were after them, or if they’d really show up here. She recalls the words Becky told her when asked who they are, back in her Oslo office:

_“Ah, I haven’t looked into it too much. I’ve really kept in my lane.”_

Charlotte’s jaw stiffens, and she looks down. The used swatch is put on the rock beside her. Becky knows what’s going through her mind. She turns her cheek away momentarily. It’s better not to show her face right now. Not until the historian’s attention returns. Even then, she wishes to hide. To sulk in her own embarrassment. She’d rather that than to face Charlotte’s disappointment. It’s obvious that it’s brewing.

“Tell me what happened,” the words are careful and unreadable, Charlotte raising an unstained patch to Becky’s forehead wound.

“I… don’t remember much,” her voice shakes. “I woke up being dragged by two guys, and━”

“I mean with Paige. What those women were talking about.”

There it is, Becky thinks. She stiffens, hesitating. Charlotte feels her chill beneath the pad. Her motions stop, and her wound-tending ceases. For a second, the hesitation is matched. Although the historian doesn’t want to be brash, she’s simultaneously tired of dancing around it. She’s so, _so_ tired.

“Becky, I’m not asking this time,” fragile eyes look at her, shining like a scolded child. “Tell me what happened.”

Her seriousness is evident. It’s deafening, and tedious. It reminds Becky of how she should’ve been open a long time ago. She should’ve prevented this, or at least tried her hardest to. No lame attempts, no pretending to be clueless. Going back, she would’ve been the best version of herself. The version that Charlotte thought she knew, years ago. Nowadays, _Becky_ isn’t even sure who she sincerely is. And, sure, she may have her reasons, but nothing is reason enough to keep one’s friends in the dark. She knows she’s fucked up. After everything, she continues to fuck up.

Despite the lump in her throat, she understands. Charlotte deserves to know. Anything and everything. No matter what questions she’s faced with, no matter who asks her, whether it be Charlotte, or Sasha, or Bayley… she’ll answer with genuinity. This is where she starts.

With a nod and her eyes sealed, she mutters, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

Her tongue drags along her lips, tasting the metallic sting again and again. It clouds her mouth, trying to swallow its pungent remnants repeatedly. When her mouth opens, she sucks in a gradual breath, then closes it again. Meanwhile, Charlotte lets her gather her thoughts. She knows it must not be an easy story. Especially if Becky held onto it for this long without a measly hint of its contents.

The piece of gauze is wiped along Becky’s tender skin, around the wound on her forehead with precision. She swaps it out for a fresh one, upright on her knees as she hovers almost above the other woman. Becky feels the woman’s breath against her cheek, holding her own and pretending that the proximity isn’t intoxicating. Charlotte’s eyes observe the cut, how it’s several layers deep but not too bad. It’s more comforting than the plausible, internal damage that Becky is dealing with. She keeps a steady hand while cleaning it.

“As you already know, a few years back, I was in jail,” Becky starts. “One of Panama’s finest prisons,” it’s sarcastic, said with raised eyebrows. “My partner and I had been scouring an assortment of continents that showed a mere _speckle_ of evidence pointing to Avery’s treasure. At the time, we had no inkling of Scotland or Saint Dismas’ Cathedral. Not a clue in the world, and, by all means, the so-called ‘evidence’ that we _did_ have was next to nothin’,” she pauses. “But Paige and I usually worked quite well with that nothin’,” the sentence is punctuated by a wistful grin.

Charlotte hums, “She was your longtime partner, right?”

“Yeah,” the affirmation is immediate. “One hell of a hunter, too,” she smiles again, shifting her forehead with the expression before it’s ended by a sharp “Ow” when Charlotte goes too close to her wound.

“Sorry,” her hand retracts, but her apology is pointed, not necessarily sincere. “Just hold still,” she instructs, leaning closer. “Continue.”

“Anyway, with years of searching for Avery’s bounty already under our belts, we’d go on frivolous ventures here and there just to keep busy when we hit a massive block. Then, we’d be thrown a breadcrumb, eat it up, have nothing else to continue on that path, and so forth. An endless cycle, it seemed.”

Her eyes bore into the cave wall, preparing herself. The events come back to her like they happened just yesterday. The sound of flash bombs going off in the distance, the tailing gunshots, the rev of engines, the shouts, demands, cries. They slow her heartbeat through an emotional clench, constricted and stuck in her begrudged memories. Memories that she hasn’t delved into for years. And, by all means, maybe that’s been her problem. On the other hand, it’s not like revisiting them is easy. Her jaw clenches.

“So, a little over two years ago, we had our nose to the dirt just over the Panama border coming from Colombia, hearin’ about some cross-like thing with a hidden treasure inside. Part of Avery’s game.”

“The cross you took from the mansion?”

“Correct,” Becky nods once Charlotte moves her hand away, “but the one from the mansion was the real deal. The one we were originally after turned out to be a fake. This flimsy… empty thing.”

She pauses, then whispers, “Which means going there, in the first place, was a mistake. I lost everything for a phony cross that ultimately lead to more problems.”

An unsettling chill takes over. The air falls silent, the breeze outside stops tunneling through. It’s more reflective than anything, Charlotte decides. Her posture deflates while she searches Becky’s crestfallen face. How her features droop, her eyes portray themselves with spots of blue within their brown color. All begging for physical comfort. Honestly, she wishes she could provide it. She wishes she could say none of it matters, anyway. That’d be a lie, though. Because, truthfully, it’s clear that the only way to make things right is to know what she’s working with. _Who_ she’s working with. Right now, she has no idea who Becky Lynch authentically is, and it’s hurtful. It’s terrorizing. The person she’s fallen so hard for, the person she’s held onto for so long… she’s a stranger. It’s up for Becky to decide, right now, if she wants it to stay that way.

Charlotte reaches for a tube of antibiotic ointment, squeezing some out onto her finger and smoothing it around the gash on Becky’s forehead, though careful not to touch it. The treasure hunter closes her fists and shows their veins with pressure via the searing pain, gritting her teeth but bearing the burning against her skin.

“What happened?” once finished, Charlotte repeats the question more softly, even if she knows Becky is already bound to tell her.

“You know snatchers,” she starts, a tiny laugh being the least bit sincere as far as humor goes. “Militias and groups that aren’t friendly,” she looks at Charlotte for a second, but doesn’t wish to remember their first venture together. “They were after the same thing, ended up chasin’ Paige and I into an unknown civilization. Unfriendly people, willing to kill anyone and everyone who stumbled into the land. A swampy area, in the middle of nowhere. Hidden in the trees. We knew we were being watched from the moment we were crouching in the brush, away from the army that’d been chasing us for countries.”

A Band-Aid is unwrapped, cautious fingertips lifting Becky’s chin and turning it so they’re making eye contact. Again, the historian has to seal her lips and ignore the closeness between them. She sets the patch over the wound, fingertips kind before retracting them. With Becky’s chin still lifted, Charlotte does a double-take when she yet again sees the remnants of the red band across her neck. Still there. Still haunting both of them. The blonde lectures herself internally, calling the thought selfish. Becky sure as hell is dealing with a lot more turmoil from that moment. Charlotte is sure of it. The sight is still deplorable, however. She forces her eyes away.

“By the skin of our teeth, we managed to run from those people, as well,” Becky watches her look elsewhere, the historian cleaning up her hands and the medkit, itself. “We didn’t mean harm, but━but we could understand why they thought we did,” she defends, stammering. “Armies must’ve been tracking in and out of their land for God only knows how long. Soldiers marching into their homes with guns and vehicles, either unknowingly or uncaringly. I don’t blame them for retaliating.”

Ocean-eyes glance in her direction, then back to the medkit. She notes Becky’s unwavering respect, even in light of what transpired. It’s noble.

“We ran, and we ran, only to be picked off by Panamanian officials,” her broken lips purse. “Said we were trespassing, and, well, we weren’t exactly there _legally,_ nor did we have rights to our weapons, and… _God_ it was a fucking trainwreck.”

Charlotte finally settles enough to listen to the story, next to Becky but only inches away. Their knees brush, the hunter cross-legged whereas Charlotte is leant to the side, arm outstretched to keep herself propped. With Becky’s dispirited face, she has to stop herself from reaching out and taking her hand. To play with her fingers for her own benefit and for Becky’s. If she knows the Irish woman as much as she used to, that is. She used to adore tiny gestures. They always made her smile. To ignore her yearning to comfort both of them, the she pokes at a stain on her jeans.

“While we were there in prison, Paige and I met a convict named Rhea Ripley,” Becky skips ahead. “The muscly one you met just a bit ago,” she explains with a snicker and Charlotte nods in remembrance. “She wasn’t always so… ready to roll over. Put it that way. She was… I don’t want to say ‘a mercenary,’ but more like an assassin-hunter hybrid. One of a kind. She was attentive, intelligent as anyone in a _general_ sense, a bang-up companion. But also sneaky,” her eyebrows raise, baffled by something unsaid. _“Shit,_ was she sneaky.”

Her eyes lower to the cave ground in front of her crossed legs.

“She’s the whole reason she and I managed to escape that prison. Paige and I had one day been talking about Avery, just discussin’ in our own little bubble at the edge of the prison yard, and she came over to us. Sat down without a care in the world, and listened,” the explanation is quiet, mellow. “It’s not like we wanted to let her in on anything, initially. A third person would mean more asses to cover. More risked, in the end. And, weeks later, I’d be right,” it holds unbridled pain, like it’s been accepted. “The risk was… substantial, and I lost on that gamble.”

Charlotte watches her head bow. She sees the way Becky swallows her pride, her regret, her remorse, her guilt, her _everything._ The blonde’s hand twitches, ready to reach out, but Becky continues. Her hand stays in place.

“Rhea had a close working relationship with ‘someone powerful.’ Her words,” a popping sound is made with her mouth. “She could get messages to this ‘someone powerful’ through a vine of the right prison guards. At first, we were skeptical. After all, Paige and I were discussing showing our cards at the risk of it being a ruse. She could’ve been uncovering our secrets before running away and giving us absolutely nothing,” her shoulders tighten, then drop. “But, rather quickly, there was a plan in play. We’d acquire knives, slip them into a few cells, incite a riot between rival gangs, flare the tension, and book it as no one watched the ‘least threatening.’ There’d be a van waiting for us just outside. All we had to do was agree that we’d work with Rhea and that ‘someone powerful.’”

The other woman makes a _“yikes”_ face, knowing where the story is heading. Her tongue clicks behind her teeth, already wanting to apologize. Already wanting to whisper that she’s sorry, that she never knew, and that it’s okay to mourn. From the moment Becky stepped into her office, from the moment the redhead’s former partner was mentioned and she stiffened, Charlotte knew. Maybe not the details of it, but she knew. Something was amiss, and there was a lot of weight boring down on the woman that now sits next to her. It still hasn’t lessened.

“We agreed,” the short statement is emotionless. “We decided we didn’t want to spend our lives in prison, and, even if we had to give them the biggest cut, so be it. We’d been chasing Avery for too long, and it was time to close that chapter before we lost our minds. Before we ended up as crazy as those pirates did,” she chuckles.

Charlotte thinks of her words, ducking her head.

“We almost made it,” Becky suddenly whispers, and the extreme agony in her voice is what makes Charlotte look up again. “All we had to do was scale the last wall, jump off the balcony and run to the van. All I had to do was pull Paige up another three feet before we’d be free. Before we’d be back in business, like always,” she chokes up, and Charlotte’s frown is so heavy that her jaw slacks.

“She didn’t make it,” the blonde fills in the blank, tone just as hollow, and Becky fiddles with her fingers.

“I lost on that gamble,” she repeats. “Bet my best friend’s life, and I lost.”

They both hear her swallow, doing it a second time when she can’t keep the tears down. A harsh sniffle follows, but she’s not crying. Not yet, anyway. But the sound, itself, causes Becky to pretend she’s indifferent. That she’s not showing the cracks in her persona, or the ache she’s felt since the moment it happened. She puts up a front. This time, Charlotte doesn’t call her out on it.

“She’d jumped and I was holding onto her hand, ready to pull her up and bolt out of there with Rhea waitin’ behind me, but a round of three or four bullets just… shattered our little world. I saw the life leave her eyes, the blood on her lips. I’ll never forget it, either,” her body recoils, arms now across her stomach, hugging herself. “My grip let go, she fell, and… all I wanted to do was apologize to her repeatedly. Her lifeless body, her… loss of soul. I would’ve, too. But Rhea, tactful as ever, told me I’d end up like her if I stayed any longer,” a shrug gives her pause. “She was right. The guards were rushing us, and we had a window of maybe ten seconds to get out of there.”

A tear trickles down the side of Charlotte’s nose, having to wipe it away. Rolling her eyes at herself as she does it, as well. Becky’s agony far surpasses hers, and she feels guilty for reacting so sadly when she’s simply an outsider. An outlet to the story, like she’s wanted to be. Charlotte relaxes.

“Once I got into the van, I felt like I was shot dead, anyway. I sat against the wall, catatonic. I don’t remember being taken to their headquarters, the abandoned warehouse where they sat up shop for the meantime. I was in that state for days,” she doesn’t blink, staring at the ground. “Hardly ate, hardly drank, hardly slept. I don’t remember doing any of it, if I’m being honest. I only assume I did because I probably wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

The Irish woman shakes her head, bringing herself out of the trance. She itches the bridge of her nose, trying to act passive again. Unlike before, she fails. Her tears surface more than they already were, and her throat tightens. The following words tremble.

“For a while, Rhea was patient. She tried talking to me, tried… hearing my ideas regarding where Avery kept the loot, but wouldn’t get anywhere. I didn’t hear my own voice for a whole week, and, once I did, it sounded as foreign as Paige’s did, by then,” a tear falls into her lap. “In the coming days, Rhea became increasingly… _agitated,_ I guess is a word for it. Her patience only stretched so far, after that. I remember the day it ran out. I remember hearing the slam of a metal door, her storming across the room before I could even turn around, and she was in my face.”

 _“I stuck my fucking neck out for you, Lynch,”_ Becky hears the words crystal-clear, like they’re being stressed again.

“I could tell she was afraid. I didn’t know why, though. Not until I met that ‘someone powerful’ whom I’d heard so often about,” she inhales deeply, then exhales, bracing herself. “Lacey Evans.”

“The other woman we had the pleasure of meeting,” Charlotte’s voice is dull, a bad taste in her mouth as she says it.

“A real doll, isn’t she?” the redhead raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t even get a formal greeting when we first met. I stood up in the room as two soldiers came in, and I was expecting someone more burly, you know? Someone meaner lookin’. She walked in and I couldn’t help but squint. Wasn’t my best reaction, I’ll admit,” she stretches out her legs, a muffled grunt surfacing before she returns to her former position.

 _“Excuse me, care to explain what’s so interesting?”_ a tiny snicker exits Becky’s throat at the memory, afterwards puffing her cheeks out through a breath.

“Her patience wasn’t so extended,” Becky rolls her eyes. “Hell, it didn’t really exist at all. I couldn’t even get a word in edgewise before she was ranting and raving about how she’d broken us out, how she’d jumped through hoops to get us busted from that prison,” her irritation flares, eyes watering again, this time with anger. “All I wanted to do was remind _everyone_ that I’d lost my best friend, that I was fucking grieving, and mourning, and _heartbroken,”_ her fury boils over, then cools down with two tears falling. “But I knew they wouldn’t care.”

Her heart thumps within her chest, just as sore as the rest of her body.

“A gun was in my face not even five minutes later. Pointed directly at my forehead,” it’s stoic, expressionless and borderline unmoved. “I almost told her to do it. I could feel myself _wanting_ to say it, _wanting_ to dare her. I didn’t want to go on alone. Not without Paige,” weak eyes close, another tear creating a wet path against her cheek before they open again. “I had no dignity anymore, no nothin’. I didn’t deserve dignity, either, or anything to take the pain away.”

Charlotte’s breathing shallows to the point of needing to look away. Multiple teardrops escape while treading down her face, along her chin until they drop. When she looks up, her mouth opens and closes with desire to proclaim that Becky deserves a lot more than she gives herself credit for. That she deserves patience, and care, and love. No more hostility, and force, and brash attitude. She deserves the world and all of its entirety. Charlotte would be the one to give it to her, too. Hell, after everything, she still _wants_ to.

However, she knows those proclamations would be lost on the treasure hunter. She knows Becky is set in her ways, currently, and she was back then, too. Anything Charlotte says now won’t permeate the walls around Becky’s premature acceptance of what she deserves, and how she thinks what she deserves is nothing.

In retrospect, Charlotte remembers how she’d said something similar. How she’d confessed that, after Shayna was executed, she wanted to die just as much. She remembers how Becky tried interrupting, and how she’d told the hunter that she needs to get the thought out. Here, she knows her partner needs to do the same. Even if it hurts Charlotte to hear that Becky would rather have died, would rather have passed on to join Paige and leave the blonde to survive alone… she still needs to grieve, and vent, and confide. She bites her cheek, wiping her own tears.

“I was tired, but I agreed to her demands,” Becky continues. “She said I’d better find that treasure I was talking about. ‘Or else,’ she said. I’d have the help of a whole army behind me, but not my best friend.”

Becky’s tongue pokes out of her mouth, dragging along the left corner of her lips. She thinks for a moment, following her own story and curtly raising her eyebrows.

“Throughout the expedition, the scavenging and theorizing with Rhea about where the treasure could be, I tried figuring out her stance with Lacey. Rhea was scared of her, and I knew that. I could tell their relationship was volatile, whatever it was,” it’s mindless, simple information she’s collected. “I never had the stomach to mention it, though. I knew she’d flip her lid, and, again, I was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pretending, tired of it all.”

The blonde watches the way Becky’s contemplation grows, like she’s still tracing backwards along Avery’s trail and what it’s brought to her life. The consequences Becky has collected throughout it. More questions than answers. More hazards than rewards. Charlotte never knew how much Becky sacrificed to get here, willfully or not. She never knew an ounce of it. All those times she accused her of being reckless, just for the sake of bounty…

Charlotte bites her inner cheek even harder, running a hand through her hair.

“After we successfully lifted that phony cross, we uncovered nothin’ else. Went to Scotland, the Cathedral there, and searched every nook and cranny in that place, but nothin’. Weeks turned into months, then more months, then even _more_ until I lost count. We weren’t finding a damn thing there, but Lacey didn’t want to accept that,” Becky tightens her lips. “I got a scar on my back to prove it.”

“What’d she do?” she frowns severely, suddenly defensive with her eyebrows knitted together.

“Let’s just say she’s not a fan of people walking away from her,” a curt, dark smile is offered, twisted as ever. “She wouldn’t listen to shit, so I didn’t know what else to tell her. I turned to leave the Cathedral room where she set up her quarters, and she was quick to pull a pocket knife on me. She wanted me to know she meant business.”

The historian breathes out, eyes solemn before they close in an effort to wipe away the image.

“I was trying to push through, I was trying to ignore that I was working like a slave for them,” Becky closes her eyes to mimic Charlotte, lowering her head, “but my mindset changed once I found out that Lacey’s army… they’re the ones who ran us into that area of savages. They’re the ones who got the ball rollin’, who got us thrown into that prison, that got Paige taken from me,” her lower lip quivers, eyes flashing red once the blonde can see them. “After everything, I was working for the fucking enemy,” she says with a bitter laugh.

Charlotte wishes to plead with her that she couldn’t have known. That she couldn’t have predicted such a sadistic turn of events, or such a sadistic plan.

“That was the final straw,” it’s whispered. “I mentioned not having dignity before that, but,” she exhales, “I never knew I could feel even lower. Not until that point.”

She pauses, trying to uplift her words away from their dreariness by nodding with pursed lips.

“Three days later, I’d be caught up in an avalanche. Crushed beneath tons on tons of snow, rock, ice, even parts of that Cathedral,” Becky plays with her fingers. “Not really, at least. All that mattered was that they believed I lost my life in that mishap. A misfired explosion leading to my unfortunate demise.”

“You faked your own death?” she’s mildly surprised yet also concerned.

“Yeah,” it’s with a sad smile that she offers admission. “I think that’s another reason why I never contacted you. Or at least an excuse as to why I didn’t. Whether or not it’s the truth is another story,” she says beneath her breath, disappointed with herself. “To many, I was a ghost.”

“Why did you do it? Would they really have killed you if you didn’t comply?”

“Are you seriously doubting it?” Becky laughs disturbingly, and Charlotte bows her head for a moment of simmering outrage toward those who’ve wronged the Irish woman.

“But why didn’t they report anything?” she tries again, clawing for a reason.

Becky feels her lips curve into a faint smile at her optimism, at her need to believe there’s good in people. No matter what.

“My guess is that, for starters, they didn’t exactly have a warrant to excavate the ruins of that Cathedral,” Becky answers. “And, to no flattery towards me, I wasn’t exactly important to them. Just a pawn, at the end of the day. I had no family, either, so no one would be wondering where I was,” her tongue halts, and her tone lowers. “No loose ends because _I_ was the loose end.”

This time, Becky catches the sad look on Charlotte’s face. The devastation. The look of dislike for her words, for her self-targeted disdain, even if it’s due to what outsiders made her believe. Even if it’s not her fault. That look is part of the reason why she hasn’t wanted to say anything, even if her willpower faltered and allowed her to try. She never wanted to bring it upon Charlotte. The detrimental effects of the tale, how it eats at one’s resolve and makes you feel sick to your stomach. All the loss, and the abuse, and the pressure. She swallows hard at the blonde’s obvious concern mixed with heartbreak, then ducks her head.

“If I’m being honest, I wanted to stay hidden. I wanted to lie beneath the radar for a while. Gather myself up, and… do what I had to do,” she adjusts her position where she sits. “It wasn’t long before I started searching for Avery’s treasure on my own. I scoped out the real, miniature cross that _they’d_ been eyeing, I took it, and I found my ass back in Scotland. I avoided Lacey and Rhea as much as I could, and, for a while, I managed. They were always too close for comfort, though. In Scotland, Madagascar, and now here. Riding my coattails, even though they figure it’s the opposite.”

Becky shifts her jaw, making a face by scrunching up her lips. She looks at Charlotte, then away again. The idea of being truthful bounces around in her mind, chanting to herself that she has to keep going. She can’t stop talking now. A sigh is heard.

“I saw Rhea earlier,” she forces herself to confess, and it gets the blonde’s full attention. “The second time we were shot at, before the treasury. I saw her, and I…” her sentence ends, but the other woman doesn’t blink.

Instead, she begins to nod, and Becky side-eyes her movements when Charlotte reaches away. Like she’d ignored the previous admission, or like she already knew. Becky wonders what she’s thinking. If she’s angry, if she’s disappointed, if she’s just as exhausted as they both look. She stares at her body language, reserved but determined while rifling through the lone backpack between them. Becky presumes they took hers away at the camp, and she wasn’t equally as fortunate to find it in the bed of a truck.

“Here,” Charlotte’s voice steals her attention back, a granola bar offered in her hand, “you need some substance.”

There’s a flicker of something within blue-green eyes. A glimmer of sadness, or the revealing sign that she’s trying to push her anger aside. Becky decides that it’s best to accept the care, the comfort and the emotional warmth, so she takes the bar with delicate fingers and a meek “Thanks.”

Her head throbs as she chews the first bite. The bars aren’t stale, but granola has never been her favorite, in the first place. Not to mention the fact that her jaw practically cracked once she hit the slab of stone not too long ago. Rhea’s punch probably didn’t help a damn, either. She’s surprised she’s still in one piece, quite frankly. A cut on her forehead, a split lip, and scrapes from rough marble are nothing compared to the list of potential results. She could’ve _died,_ even. Something tells her Charlotte knows, too. Maybe that’s why she’s being so compassionate, despite what Becky has put her through. She wonders if the historian wishes she could leave, or at least say they can talk another time. She wonders if Charlotte doesn’t have any other option, and that’s why she’s being so dedicated to caring. Just to get through this. Becky wouldn’t blame her.

Another piece is swallowed, then another, until it’s finished. She wasn’t even hungry, honestly. She’d lost her appetite once Rhea’s face was shown, once she’d dealt with the man’s forearm pressed against her trachea. Still, her priority is to keep Charlotte content now. Her eyes drift over to the blonde who stares at the two wrappers between them, her jaw set into a locked position.

There’s a palpable tension lingering between them. Floating around within the air like they’re fragments of memories let loose by Becky’s hesitant lips. And maybe part of that tension is simply leftover animosity ━ if they could call it that ━ as a result of Becky withholding so much information after a long span of time. Maybe they’ll heal ━ _together_ ━ as minutes pass. After all, she’s finally laid her cards on the table between them. She’s finally confronted her demons regarding Paige, Rhea, Lacey, and so forth. “Confronted” being used vaguely. It’s still something she holds a lot of self-directed resentment about. Something she wished to own up to on her own terms. But she’s been a coward, all this time. Both because of how Charlotte would take it, and because she never wanted things to go this way.

She gives an empty chuckle to the universe, though it hardly comes out. It’s better that it didn’t, anyway.

On the other hand, even with that information out in the open, even with Charlotte fully knowing what and who they’re dealing with now, there’s still a piece of her identity that the redhead holds onto for dear life. Something she’s hardly trusted anyone with. Something that’s shaped her into the selfish person she is today, and a big reason as to why she operates the way that she does. With tunnel vision. With a certain zest that’s the least bit comforting to outsiders. It’s why she’s so risky, why she oftentimes appears desolate, or like she doesn’t value herself over what she chases. It’s where her determination derives from, even if she tries to hinder it, and it’s ultimately where she inherited her obsession.

Becky apprehensively looks at Charlotte, studying the blonde’s profile as she’s turned away. The hunter’s head stays bowed, shy and guarded. Her throat bobs as she swallows another lump, like the words are clinging to her damaged windpipe and trying to stay locked inside. Her tongue twists, just the same, like her well-being is imploring with herself not to open the floodgates. Not to revisit such trying times that skid across her heart time and time again to tenderize it. To damage it more than anything. More than Paige’s passing, in a way. The first heartbreak she’d become familiar with. The first of many times of heartbreak. The one that set it all off.

Charlotte deserves to know, though. After all of this, she really does. Becky owes the historian far more than she could ever offer, but, unlike every other time the redhead tried her hardest to be the best version of herself, this time she’ll _force_ herself to be that best version. The version Charlotte thought she knew. The version she expected to get, in return. That’s the least Becky can do. Even if it means breaking off another piece of her soul and shakily placing it in Charlotte’s bowled palms with such trust and sincerity that it burns the historian’s skin. As long as Becky makes an effort.

Her mouth opens and closes three times. A cracking sound comes out, first. The struggle stunts her progress immediately, and she grunts once Charlotte turns to her. The tall blonde doesn’t interrupt, simply waiting for Becky to say whatever-it-is. Judging by the Irish woman’s tightened posture, it seems difficult. Her frame is fragile, brittle yet sharp, elbows tucked in against her torso as she plays with her fingers. Brown eyes bore into her nails, smoothing their broken edges, teeth bared but gently so. They clack together for another second or two, then her motions stop.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” she treads carefully, “but… I grew up an orphan.”

It catches Charlotte off-guard. Actually, it completely derails her train of thought. That’s definitely not what she was expecting. The last thing she would’ve imagined, in fact.

“What?” it’s not that she means to say it, but every other question drops from her mind at the exact same time.

Realistically, Becky can tell that Charlotte heard. She can tell that she’s stunned, dumbfounded, and blanked by the delivery of it. By all means, she, herself, feels a similar surprise by the bombshell. Even if it’s her own truth. For years, she’s carried its burden, its full load conjured up by a tragedy. The Irish woman nods with pursed lips, deciding to expand on the statement instead of letting it dwindle.

“Passed around like a new puppy until they finally stuck me in a run-down building with not a clue of who I really was,” there’s a bitter laugh at the end, yet still quiet, like she’s merely attempting to lighten the mood ━ or convince Charlotte that it doesn’t bother her anymore.

“I had… _no idea,”_ Charlotte breathes out, floored into a muted demeanor.

“It’s not somethin’ I’ve told many people. Paige knew, and… now you do,” Becky says. “People from my childhood, too, yeah, but I didn’t willingly share the information. It’s not a tidbit I tend to bring up. I guess you can’t really find it on Google,” a cheeky smile is given, hiding her insecurities. “But, yeah, I was. Until, after a while, I took myself out of the orphanage. Skipped away from my homestead of Ireland and ventured far and wide. To England.”

“Will you tell me about it? What happened to your parents, I mean,” Charlotte requests, this time not demanding the information, but her innocent curiosity and mild desperation to know implores Becky to be honest about it ━ so she is.

“My parents… they died when I was young,” the initial explanation is simple. “At the age of seven, I had to somehow comprehend and live with the fact that my parents both committed suicide, immediately one after the other,” her heart takes refuge in her throat. “My mom had struggled with depression for as long as I could remember. She’d be missing for days, up in her study. They’d fight a lot because of it, but, at the end of the day, he loved her,” she pauses, expression faltering. “At least, I think he did.”

The historian’s mouth stays agape, tongue dancing behind her teeth. She’s speechless. Becky pushes an extended breath out, a watery smile having a flash of existence before it disintegrates. Charlotte traces the cracks where her partner’s vulnerability seeps through. She can see how she’s breaking, the sharpened edges of the composure she’s held so-desperately onto for years upon years. A few decades, even. She can’t even imagine what that’s like. The redhead proceeds to gather strength to explain, almost delaying to the point of Charlotte telling her that it’s okay. That she doesn’t have to revisit the memory right now. God, if she could only push herself into portraying her relent. She’d never wish such excruciating visions or recollections on Becky. Not again. Even if she thinks about them often… Charlotte shouldn’t plead with her to relive them. She goes to open her mouth, to put a hand on the other woman’s in an act of understanding, but Becky beats her by continuing.

“My mom was first, or that’s what I was told once I _demanded_ answers two years later. She had a general note written, too, but I never wanted to read it. That’s the one thing I shook my head at when they offered to tell me,” her frame appears small, childlike, as if she’s mimicking her old self unraveling the mortifying situation. “Truth be told, I didn’t care why she did it. That’s not what my heart aches for.”

Becky’s shoulders slump. Distant, brown eyes bore into the stone in front of her, but not entranced. Truthfully, she’s afraid to look at Charlotte, or lift her head at all. If she does, she’ll be a goner. The tears already prowl behind her eyes, behind the bridge of her nose just waiting to be shown. Just waiting to taste the air and blemish her skin even more. They build against her willpower’s floodgates, grind against her strength with a tingling static drifting down to her fingertips. A sharp, drilling sensation is felt in the middle of her palms, and she has to ball her hands into fists to get rid of it. Becky clears her throat.

“But my, uh━my dad…” she stammers, “he must’ve walked in and seen what happened, the gun…” her lips wobble. “His death was recorded as happening an hour later. No note. Just straight to the point. Just like that. The same fate.”

No response.

“My dad’s friend…” Becky licks her lips as she jumps ahead in the recollection, voice raspy from needing to cry, and she clears her throat. “He said my dad would’ve never been able to take care of me on his own. Apparently, he was already telling them how, if my mother went, he wouldn’t know what to do.”

There’s a brief halt, her tongue rolling behind her teeth, and her chin lowers before muttering, “I guess no one knew he meant he’d be willing to take his own life to stay with her and not with me.”

The historian lets her tears fall before Becky does, mouth opening and closing before she’s able to force out a simple, whispered “That’s heartbreaking” which her partner silently agrees with.

At first, Becky allows the conversation to fester. In a way, it’s not intentional. After all, this is the first time she’s spoken about it since she told Paige, way back when. Her heart’s a little rusty when it comes down to it. Even in the air, Becky can feel it clouding them like smoke. The breeze that filters into the shallow cave takes the rancid particles with it, and for that Becky feels thankful. She inhales the fresh scent of tropical leaves, even the damp aroma from nearby water.

Next to her, Charlotte’s swirling questions speak volumes. Becky can tell she has plenty, or wants to ask more about it, despite not wanting to poke at the wound that’ll likely always be fresh. However, the treasure hunter waits for her to acquire courage. If Charlotte were to voice those inquisitions, Becky would be sure to answer. But she can also tell that the historian is trying to respect her privacy. Although the Irish woman feels grateful for it, she’s tired of hiding things from Charlotte. No matter how big or how small. They’ve been through hell and back together, and it’s time Becky spills her heart out. It really is.

“I saw you looking at me earlier,” it gets Charlotte to look at her, forehead creased. “When we were ambushed that first time. I saw you staring at my hands. How they shook.”

“I noticed the first time we worked together, too.”

Becky nods, her jaw clenching.

“The first time I ever shot a gun, I fell to my knees and just started crying,” she recalls. _“Bawling._ Couldn’t breathe worth a damn. At the time, Paige hadn’t known my story, and I had no intention of telling her until that day. She had to drag me out of the fray and sit me behind a crate until it was clear. It’s the first time I felt helpless,” her expressions morph as she speaks, feeling at a loss all over again. “My hands felt like they were on fire, and, honestly, I don’t even remember what happened after that. I couldn’t tell ya.”

The other woman looks at Becky’s hands, how she turns them over and looks at them as if they’re objects. She thinks for a second or two.

“It’s a PTSD thing, isn’t it?” Charlotte asks thoughtfully. “Maybe not the exact term, but…” she pauses, giving a direct guess. “Because of your parents.”

“That’s one way of putting it, yeah.”

Charlotte doesn’t know what to say, so she bows her head and Becky re-routes the conversation.

“You know, the only things I’ve learned about my parents have come through secondhand memories of my dad’s old friends, or the woman my mother worked for,” her features are wistful, zoned out before she looks at Charlotte. “My first big act of thievery was me breaking into that woman’s house. A mansion in a wealthy New York neighborhood, completely overlooking the city. You wouldn’t believe the artifacts in that place,” she muses, pulling her knees up with a grimace and hugging them, slightly rocking back. “Sarcophaguses, the oldest suits of armor, urns, you name it,” a tiny smile makes it onto her face, reminiscent until it fades.

She bites the tip of her tongue.

“But all I wanted was to find something on my mom or dad. Something that told me more than a bland story ever could. Something that showed me who they were when they weren’t pretending to be a white-picket-fence couple with this ideal family when we weren’t ideal at all,” her words heighten gradually, displaying an acute resentment. “Since they tried escaping that life—especially my mother—they told me very little. Hell, I didn’t even know the extent of their professionalism until years after it was too late to even _begin_ understanding.”

Her partner gets more comfortable, pressing her elbow into the thigh of her jeans and leaning her chin on her fist. If Becky wasn’t so locked onto the story she’s been telling, she’d smile at the position. Maybe even blush at how captivated she looks. Captivation regarding Becky’s life story, in particular. One corner of the redhead’s mouth twitches into the world’s smallest grin, but it’s hardly seen. She takes a deep breath.

“I was caught, of course. Held at gunpoint within a dark room despite my young age. I almost collapsed there, too, but I think I was already… _dead,_ in a way,” the statement is careful, not wanting to bother Charlotte anymore than she already has. “Once I stepped out of the shadows, the woman wasn’t angry. She was… _relieved_ it was me. She knew who I was, right when I stepped forward. The daughter of her favorite treasure hunter,” there’s a break in her explanation. “I think she knew I’d carry on the ‘family business,’ in some light. She knew before I did,” the whisper is conflicted, but it comes with an odd grin.

Charlotte lets out a tiny laugh when she sees Becky’s ludacris smile.

“To put it brashly, she was the collector, and my mother did the dirty work. They had a relationship like I nowadays wish I could’ve had with my mom. A learning relationship, I s’pose. They meant a great deal to each other,” Becky rubs her cut lips together. “Maybe I’d be satisfied with my work up until this point if I knew this is what she wanted for me. That’s what I keep telling myself, at least. But I have no idea, so I’m left wondering,” her face contorts in bittersweet comedy. “You were right when you said knowledge is the real treasure.”

She swallows her tears, and the historian stays silent, pained.

“I’ve been told countless times that I should be blessed I had some of the greatest treasure hunters as my parents. ‘Blessed?’ I’d ask them, and you’d see their faces go pale,” it’s broken by a faint laugh. “That’s the reason my dad never wanted me. I wasn’t intended, you see, but my mom wanted something worth more than an old medallion, or coin, or━or whatever it may be. My dad supported her decision and tried settling down. _God,_ did he try,” she shakes her head, crimson hair swaying. “But his head was never in it. He was hardly a father at all.”

To distract herself, her nails scratch at her camo pants. An odd sound fills the air, a sort of friction beneath her fingertips that she’s able to soothe herself with. Charlotte watches, knowing what she’s doing. It’s a common, Becky technique. There’s an adolescent smile behind her eyes, but she doesn’t let it reach her face. Not during such a mentally exhausting story.

“So, I kept my mother’s maiden name,” it’s random, strangely upbeat, but the other woman can tell there’s something behind it. “For a while, I loathed my father, and occasionally I still do. Do I know _why?_ Your guess is as good as mine, but…” her jaw shifts, raising her eyebrows for a split second. “One has to presume I never wanted to turn out like him. Unfulfilled, unhappy… only smiling when in the presence of something worth millions.”

As Becky’s voice tapers off, Charlotte wonders if this is also why she basically flat-out refuses to own up to her feelings. Especially when it comes to the two of them. If it’s why she practically ran away from the notion of them having a future together, back then. How she vacated their potential right at the first sign of danger, like it gave her an escape. She wonders if this is why Becky’s heart is always on lockdown, like she’s shattering herself before anyone else can. In more ways than one, she doesn’t want to be like her father. She doesn’t want to promise something that she can’t deliver on, in the end. Charlotte’s heart grows ten time as sore, piecing the puzzle together.

“It’s odd,” Becky’s voice falls quiet, looking down. “Part of me blamed their choices in life━their _passion_ ━for how their lives ended in a terribly hollow fate, but it’s also the same thing that made me into who _I_ am. Can I really judge?”

Again, Charlotte wishes to hold Becky’s hand. Anything to provide some sort of unspoken declaration that she has a right to feel whatever she feels. That she has a right to question the universe and what it’s given her to work with, the hand she’s been dealt. At the same time, the blonde also wants to provide notice that her parents’ fate isn’t her own, no matter what she believes. Still, she understands the inner struggle, and can only tilt her head to the side in a mix of sympathy and empathy.

“This godforsaken obsession, this treasure-hunting legacy…” Becky drifts off.

“It’s in your DNA,” Charlotte finishes her sentence.

“H’yeah,” it’s a partial laugh, “some DNA, huh?”

“And I’m assuming their deaths are why you’re so protective when it comes to people who you’re close to,” the historian reads her, and they lock eyes.

“Explains a lot, doesn’t it?” comes the gloomy confirmation.

Brown eyes trace the mouth of the cave, seeking something new to focus on. She watches the trees sway outside, how patches of sunlight move along the ground when a new cloud floats in front of its warmth.

“My mom’s depression could explain a good amount of it, as well,” she speaks to the opening. “When she left, I inherited most of it, or at least nowadays it seems so,” her lower lip is pushed out, absentmindedly pouting. _“Her_ mom suffered from it, just the same, or so I read in the archives. Passed down through generations,” a shaky laugh comes forward. “Ultimately means I’m just as susceptible to it, medically speaking. _Psychologically_ , whatever,” she rolls her eyes.

Charlotte observes her profile. Her vacant features, the lackluster expression. It’s both chilling and too raw to handle. Becky Lynch ━ the heroic figure she’s come to know, come to _love_ ━ has always been human. Even if she knew before, it’s harrowing to come to terms with. To hear admitted, and explained. Becky has never thought of herself as the hero. Charlotte is the only one who’s bitterly thought it, throughout her resenting time. Her guilt resurfaces, but eyes flicker back to Becky when she speaks again.

“Eventually, it became easy to simply pretend I felt nothing,” she confesses. “Then, it became reality, and I sincerely _didn’t._ I was numb. Sometimes, I still am,” her head turns a fraction, looking straight into attentive eyes. “I know you believe I act on impulse, and I do, and maybe it looks like I have a death wish in certain situations,” Becky nods, more so to herself. “I just know that if I leave myself open, just a tiny crack so those feelings can seep in, I’ll go under. For one reason or another, I’ll be…” her tone breaks as she tilts her chin downward. “I can’t afford that.”

A sigh escapes Charlotte’s throat, gaze pleading with the redhead to listen.

“No one can afford that, Becks.”

Becky lifts her eyes at the use of the nickname, but it’s clear that, now, she looks like a new person to Charlotte. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing is yet to be seen.

“That doesn’t mean it has to be a costly loss, though,” Charlotte says. “Letting your feelings run rampant might just be what you need, at this point.”

“It’s overwhelming.”

Charlotte gives her a bittersweet nod accompanied by a conflicted smile, “Yeah, it is.”

The air settles around them as Becky’s story ends. Charlotte feels torn in two directions. Torn up on the inside, as well. She sits there, wishing to accept it and move on. Wishing to be able to accept Becky’s story and take it as payment for everything that’s collapsed between them. Wishing to give her a free pass, considering what she’s endured from the age of seven, and even before that. Wishing to leave behind their qualms and simply work together. _Trust_ together.

Becky deserves it, doesn’t she? She deserves the world, like Charlotte said. The blonde seals her lips and lowers her head. She wants to curl up, to sleep, even next to Becky. Even _against_ Becky. She wants to think about it all another day, to decide another day. Just… not now.

Even so, even if given more time to harp on it and weigh everything that’s contributed to her distress against what she now knows, the answer would be the same. There are no free passes. Sadly, none of Becky’s story changes the fact that she lied. No matter how much Charlotte wishes it did. None of it changes that she knew they’d be in danger, yet she put them in harm’s way, anyway. It doesn’t change that she was aware of _who_ was coming after them. Whether or not Becky would outright admit it, this is a task of retribution for herself. Not solely in Paige’s good name, but because she feels it’ll clear _her_ name ━ clear her stained past ━ if she simply gets her hands on Avery’s treasure. Charlotte is afraid she’s doing it for the wrong reasons.

“And that’s it,” a curious, tiny voice is heard. “Now, you know everything,” she licks her lips and yet again feels the metallic taste attack her taste buds.

“With you? I doubt it,” the statement is neither good nor bad, Charlotte shifting her jaw, “but it is…” she inhales, then breathes out, wide-eyed, “ _a lot_ to digest.”

“And?” Becky waits for something more.

She shrugs tiredly, “And we’re lucky you’re still alive to share that with me.”

The treasure hunter hesitates, then nods while looking down.

“We are.”

“Not sure how you managed to survive that far of a fall, though,” the remark is a bit lighthearted. “It was pretty extreme.”

“Takes a lot more than that to keep me down,” Becky adjusts her hands, placing them against the stone on either side of her body.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out just how much it takes,” Charlotte says as they begin to stand, picking up the book, medkit, granola bars, and wrappings before stuffing them into the redhead’s backpack.

The pain in Charlotte’s voice is evident. Extreme and deafening. Choked up, moreover, like she’s even further damaged than she was before she knew everything. Then again, can Becky blame her? Can she, in good conscience, ask why it would affect her that much? No, she can’t. Because, at the end of the day, she’s aware that she kept so much from Charlotte. She put her through the absolute wringer for the sole sake of keeping her past buried. For keeping her motives buried, and her pathetic arc of compensating for her own loss of identity. Charlotte has become collateral, even if Becky never intended it.

But she feels the need to say something. To comfort her, in some way, or prove that she’s making an effort to move past this. To prove that, even if Charlotte doesn’t accept it, she’s sorry. To prove that she wants to start over, maybe, or make something of whatever they’ve been teetering on the edge of. Then again, she’s afraid that window of opportunity is over. Maybe she’s stained Charlotte’s perception too much, too deeply. Becky flinches at nothing in particular, drumming her fingers together in front of her torso.

Once the historian glances at the woman in front of her, she can tell that Becky wants to say something. She sees the way her mouth opens once, her lips parted, before she ducks her head through shyness. Through self-pity. It reminds her of the weight of everything. How they’re simple people in a massive situation, in a massive world. A spiteful universe. God, it’s never-ending.

When the redhead looks up, she sees that Charlotte’s eyes are full of tears ready to fall. It’s obvious that she’s overwhelmed, that everything is catching up to her and wearing against her sanity. Finally, she’s letting it show. The sight, alone, makes the treasure hunter tuck her lower lip between her teeth. In front of her, the tall blonde knows she can’t cry. Not now, not here.

Keeping that in mind, plus the notion that they have to find their friends, she begins to walk away. She doesn’t get far once Becky catches her wrist with a gentle grip.

“Hey, uh,” the Irish woman nibbles her lip to feel a sting, not making eye contact at first. “Thanks for saving me. _Again_.”

Looking at Charlotte, it’s clear that they’re both emotionally broken. Torn in all the wrong places, estranged wholly and mercilessly. Both by themselves and by the world they’re living in. Becky can see it in her eyes. How she has so much to say, so much to rant, or yell about, or plead, but no way of expressing it. Whether it’s right now, or ever. There’s no way to portray how decimated she feels, how fresh the emotional cut is, aside from crying. Charlotte seals her lips.

“You know, I…” she takes a breath, a tear trickling down her cheek. “I almost didn’t this time.”

Becky doesn’t know what that means, but maybe the unknown is easier to stomach than if Charlotte were to explain. Easier to stomach than if she spoke the actual words she was thinking. Maybe Charlotte saved her again, just now. As cliché as it is.

“Come on,” the historian nods toward the clearing ahead. “Let’s find Sasha and Bayley.”

Fresh, warm light cascades down onto them once they fully step out of the cave. Becky takes a moment to observe it. The clouds are more packed than before the tower’s collapse, likewise more dense as individuals. The sky isn’t as blue, either. It doesn’t look stormy, no, but not as bright, not as breezy and untroubled as earlier. Maybe it’s a metaphor, Becky internally muses. She sighs for the umpteenth time before looking ahead at Charlotte. As she walks, the blonde rubs the back of her neck, then reaches forward to wipe her eyes again.

Becky’s first steps away from the cave are tedious. They’re calculated, examined and precise. Like she’s a newborn horse trying to figure out what she can and cannot do under her new construction. Charlotte glances over her shoulder once, but doesn’t say anything as Becky grows accustomed to moving again. She stretches her knees out by bending them a few times each, then taking normal steps at an average pace. All the while, her body feels worn down and further bruised than it was earlier. More than she could’ve imagined, even. She supposes the best way to get through the pain is to ignore it.

“How’d you manage to find me, anyway?” she asks Charlotte, the blonde turning around with a diluted smirk.

“Oh, you know, just follow the sound of gunfire,” it’s cheeky before the playful expression fades. “Kidding. It was actually a stroke of luck that I did.”

Becky raises her eyebrows, catching sight of a dirty, open-topped Jeep just as Charlotte says, “I snatched us up a ride, by the way.”

“Good work,” the response is dazed, semi-impressed. “How’d they even get their vehicles onto the damn island?”

“Very big boats,” Charlotte answers monotonously, but perks up when Becky all but jumps into the driver’s side. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to get in.”

Her matter-of-factly answer, so pointed, so confused, earns a dumbfounded squint from Charlotte. A silent lecture, accompanying. She stands there, head partly eased forward, and Becky’s befuddlement amplifies. She silently questions what’s the matter, and the historian puts her hands on her hips.

“You seriously expect me to let you drive?” the blonde finally asks. “You were knocked unconscious _twice_ in the past hour and a half, _if_ that.”

“I told you, it takes a lot more than that to keep me down,” she states simply, then softens her voice into sincerity. “I wouldn’t be sitting in this seat if I wasn’t sure I could operate normally.”

She wants to analyze it. She wants to call Becky’s genuinity into question, especially knowing that the treasure hunter has quite recently put her at risk despite being aware of the consequences. Charlotte doesn’t want to think so bitterly, however. The better part of her can tell that the redhead is trying her hardest. She can tell by the tiny smile on her face, the hopeful glint in her eye, and the silent promises that remain covering her body language as if her words didn’t get the job done, in the first place.

With a huff, Charlotte opens the passenger side’s door, then slides in. The backpack is slipped from her shoulders and set between them. Becky watches her during the process, picking up on the inner struggle. To ease at least a fraction of her mind, she reassures the other woman with a careful nature.

“If anything changes, I’ll let you know, okay?”

Charlotte turns to her, trying to read her eyes. Becky deciphers what she’s doing, and reveals their content without apprehension.

“I promise.”

The two words strike a chord within Charlotte’s chest, and her throat pulses. Similar to during the tower’s collapse, with the hunter’s candor, she doesn’t have to think twice.

“Okay,” she relents with a single nod. “You better,” it turns serious, unwavering, like she’d noticed her spur-the-moment softness, and Becky hums.

Nimble fingers turn the key slotted into the ignition, the Jeep starting up with a purr. Becky adjusts her seat and mirrors, going through her regular motions. Through her peripherals, she watches Charlotte open the glove box, and a spare gun is slid out from its contents.

“Here,” Becky takes it once it’s offered. “This’ll probably come in handy.”

She raises her eyebrows in agreement, then slides it into her holster.

Without another word, her foot gingerly presses down on the gas pedal and they drive off. They’re not sure where the path picks up, nor are they even sure where they really are. In total, they know next to nothing. However, their determination lies within search of their friends, hoping they’re safe and okay. Hoping they haven’t been separated, more so. After all, if Charlotte’s suspicions prove to be true, if only she and Becky were the two important pieces that Lacey needed, then Sasha and Bayley could be in a heap of trouble for an assortment of reasons.

The Irish woman brushes some stray hair out of her face when it flutters into her vision, pushing it behind her ear. She next takes a breath, and focuses on the road with both hands gripping the wheel. Wherever their friends are, she hopes they’re okay.

 _Just be okay,_ she thinks. _We’re coming._

 

 

Unbeknownst to them, in a nearby camp, Lacey is already sporting a solid “plan B.” She already knows what she’s going to do, and how she’ll get her way. With or without Becky Lynch, she thinks. With a tutting of her tongue behind her teeth, the menacing blonde crouches down in front of a chained Sasha and a chained Bayley. They swallow hard, jaws settled and eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Since your leader escaped and her little gal pal there decided to drive away with one of our Jeeps, looks like we’ve found use for you, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who've followed the actual, Uncharted games likely had an inkling (perhaps?) about Becky's home-life backstory, or her childhood backstory. I definitely wanted to play into Nate's background because I think it's extremely fitting considering what we know (A.K.A. very little up until this chapter). She tucks this information into her mind and very seldom speaks about it, but she wants to show Charlotte that she's improving in that area. I think Becky being an orphan (especially in the way that it all happened) explains a lot of how she is. How she's determined but also very untaught how to deal with her feelings, etc. WHICH, within the next few chapters, will also be explained -- along with how Becky came to find Paige, including some other information about Paige that shines a light on who she was as an individual. 
> 
> From now on, we'll be diving A LOT more into Charlotte's internal debate and how she'll go about this. We'll see a lot of "My heart wants to forgive her, but HOW could it and WHY?" I think, as humans, we oftentimes have a push and pull about time-frames, as in... "Is it too soon to [do this]? Will I look like a push-over? Does it matter? Should I take a chance?" And that's what's ultimately going to pester her. From the very beginning of this story, I didn't want Charlotte to appear easily persuaded, no matter how much she loves Becky. I wanted her to have a backbone, and I wanted her to be relatable. Sasha said a handful of chapters ago that Charlotte is sweet and has a big heart, but she's very defensive/can be quite cold, and that's part of Charlotte's arc. What, did you think I wouldn't give her character development? Pfft.
> 
> As for our beloved Sasha and Bayley... I hate to say it, but it'll be a little bit before we see them again. Keep in mind that the story isn't complete without them, at all, so when we *do* see them again, we'll get that beautiful taste of Baysha. For now, it'll be Charlynch-central because we have to work on them more than anything. This has been brewing for a while. 
> 
> I hope none of that spoiled anything for y'all. I try being vague, but sometimes I REALLY like talking about my writing. It's what makes it fun. Anyway, so thank you for dealing with me/dealing with this slow-burn. I know it's been excruciating since we're... what? Twenty-four chapters in and yet we've gotten ~a hug, some glances, a whole lotta pain, and unspoken feelings. YIKES, when you put it like that... *side-eyes self*
> 
> But yes... thank you. I'll be back, and I hope you will, too.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm happy everyone both enjoyed and mourned last chapter! Happy it's become a lot of y'all's favorite. It's probably mine, too. In terms of updates we've already read.
> 
> As for this one... I feel it's best to warn you that it's not as !!! as the last two, and that's intentional. It's super bulky in terms of internal content -- this time on Charlotte's side of things. Because of that, I'll be upfront in saying it may be a bit sluggish. I wouldn't call it a filler, though. It's absolutely essential to their growth and healing, especially Charlotte's. But obviously I'm not going to spoil when you're about to read, anyway, so proceed.

MON., 6:43 P.M.

* * *

Their bodies vibrate with the engine’s purr, swaying with the minute curves of the dirt road ahead. Whenever Becky eases onto the gas a toe more, their backs press harder against the foamy leather of the seats. Comfortably so. All thing considered, it’s been a smooth ride. A casual ride, in fact. For the extent of their travel’s handful of minutes, fragile, brown eyes have been locked onto their foreseen sights, peeled and ready to jerk the wheel, if necessary. Delicate, scraped fingers have periodically tapped against the leather of the steering wheel with an otherwise-firm grip, getting a feel for the material. Becky’s been focused. Lost in her head, she’d admit. Judging by the open-topped Jeep’s silence, the same could be said for Charlotte.

Overall, despite their chewing thoughts and swirling questions — not to mention their fear regarding where their other teammates are, plus how they’re faring — they’ve made the most of enjoying the ride. The wind in their hair. The breeze against their skin, as well. Even whenever it delivers a faint sting against the redhead’s rock-burnt and tenderized cheek. They’ve made the most of the twisting path overgrown with branches and soft shrubbery. The path they’ve been following once they managed to find it through a thick of trees, heading deeper into the jungle with vibrant scenery abound. The scent of moisture on leaves, the aroma of occasional creeks and brooks dripping from nearby waterfalls. An abundance of flowers, trees, bushes, weeds, everything found on a safari ride.

Their own, personal safari ride, Becky muses. One that has a fifty-fifty chance of bringing non-tourist attractions such as avalanching cliffsides and gunfire. One that causes them to be on twenty-four-seven alert, even if her prime focus is on driving them safely along the set path. No matter what, no matter how serene their surroundings appear, there’s no doubt that Lacey’s men will be searching high and low for them. They both know it. By now, they’ve both accepted it. At least it gives them the reassurance that they’re free, ready to find Sasha and Bayley. Ready to save them, then all escape together. Becky’s hands grip the wheel tighter, hearing the sound of leather bunch beneath her curling fingers. She then relaxes, breathing out.

In the passenger’s seat, marinating in infinite masses of newly obtained information, Charlotte lounges as much as she can. With her cluttered mind weighing down on her heart, conflicts and debates grinding against her resolve as they pull her back and forth, she quietly digests Becky’s recent bombshells. The stories of the women they’re up against, what they put the hunter through, how they took her best friend away. More than that, she absorbs the confession of Becky’s childhood, and how it was anything but family-oriented. How it was anything but kind and nurturing, or how a childhood _should_ be. Charlotte feels her heart clench, her throat tighten with her lips sealing.

She bows her head, takes a breath, then readjusts her position so she’s slouched against the seat with her right arm resting atop the Jeep’s door. Automatically, the evening sun warms her skin, and her thumb taps against the car’s metal in no particular rhythm. Ocean-colored eyes examine the surrounding scenery again. Its entire, calming effect. The birds flying overhead, much like during other serene parts of this island getaway. The streams they pass while avoiding larger water sources. The bundles of red and yellow flowers, sometimes white or pink. The road that leads them everywhere yet nowhere in particular. She even soaks in the periodic, flicker of sunlight that seeps through the treeline and disturbs her pupils, making her squint and turn her head away just barely.

Each time, it causes her to look in Becky’s direction. Like the universe ━ now that it’s dismantled them as individuals ━ is forcibly shouting at them to look at each other and keep talking. Like it wants Charlotte to trace Becky’s profile and take note of every blemish upon her skin, as well as every inch of untarnished complexion. Also her brown eyes that give off a greenish-hazel tone at the precise angle. When the sun hits them just right, and the yellowish glow brightens the Irish woman’s face in an angel-like aura. And, for a moment, Charlotte gives the universe what it begs for. She observes the way the redhead nibbles on her busted lip, then how she lightly bares her teeth as if she’d forgotten about the healing wound. Only for a moment, though. In the end, Charlotte always ends up turning to face her side of the vehicle again. Becky never questions it. The historian isn’t even sure if she detected the movement, in the first place.

They both settle, watching the world around them as they drive through a thick jungle with no idea where they’re heading or what they’ll find. Obviously, the desired destination is the camp where their partners are being held captive. That’s the only source of direction they have to go on, really, in addition to the remembrance of their respective, escaped camps. Based on those factors, they’ll avoid where they’ve come from, loop around, and head toward New Devon. There’s no doubt that Lacey plans on bringing Sasha and Bayley there, whether it’s to draw Becky and Charlotte out of hiding, or to use them as shields against Avery’s inevitable traps. The treasure hunter swallows hard at the thought.

Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte notices the bob of Becky’s throat. She hears the sound, too, once Becky’s lips part against their will and the corners droop into a tiny frown. An _absentminded_ frown. It brings the blonde to turn. Immediately, she notices the redhead’s mildly distressed features, her damaged, lower lip pouted even though her eyes remain staring at the road. Unblinking, and unmoving.

Something more catches Charlotte’s attention, however, and her surprise. Unlike she felt back in the cave and once they took a few steps away from it, Becky’s presence isn’t foreign. It’s not menacing, or misplaced, or a blur. Her profile is the least bit sharpened, the least bit a disguise for someone Charlotte can’t put her finger on. It’s no longer belonging to a stranger, and no longer causing her mind to feel scattered. Beyond that, it’s no longer making her question whether or not she should believe the hunter. With the sun cascading down on Becky’s features, she appears authentic. She appears genuine, and… _real._

It’s Becky.

And that’s a good thing, right? It’s good that Charlotte is now able to see the other woman more clearly without skepticism about if she’s being true. It’s good that she can tell Becky is being sincere, and showing her true colors, and peeling back every facade that disguises the real Becky Lynch. It’s all great, _right?_

Charlotte worries at her lip, turning her head away as her body moves when they hit a bump.

Sadly, she’s not quite sure what it means. If it’s a good thing, or an off-putting thing, or simply nothing at all. She has no clue how she feels about it. About how her heart is starting to relax instead of holding pieces of Becky’s lies against her. How her heart is seemingly accepting what’s happened so soon. God, it’s so soon. Or does forgiveness depend on time, at all?

Although she finds comfort in knowing that she’s basking in Becky’s existence against all odds, against everything they’ve endured… she’s also conflicted. Especially now that her heart wants to settle, wants to get back to basics with the woman who sits next to her. Almost as if it’s disregarding the hardships Becky strained them with. As if her heart is forgetting that Becky lied about _so much,_ that she knew who they were facing yet said nothing, that she pretended ━ since their meeting in _Oslo_ ━ a random militia may or may not show up when she knew, for certain, they would. It’s all lacking matter to her heart, to her soul, and that’s what causes Charlotte’s head to pound. She doesn’t want to be a pushover, or make Becky believe that she can do it again. She doesn’t want to be looked at as easy, or too forgivable. Even if she knows the Irish woman has been through more than more people go through in a lifetime, it’s still not a valid reason to drop all charges so soon. Is it?

The historian seals her lips, shaking her head without enough force for Becky to ask why. The quietude between them grows, in the meantime. By the look on Becky’s face, her thoughts are equally as loud as Charlotte’s. Perhaps even equally as volatile, or tumultuous. Charlotte wonders what she’s thinking about, or stuck on. What she’s beating herself up over, if the blonde knows her as well as she has in the past. She wonders if it’s about what Becky confessed to, minutes ago. Or about Sasha and Bayley. Or about something else entirely. Either way, there’s a vacancy in her eyes that’s a tad unnerving. It makes Charlotte’s sadness return, honestly. It reminds her of the look Becky held when she was recounting the memory about her parents. The look of loneliness, or extreme frustration that’s short-circuited her brain to the point of being borderline catatonic.

Charlotte wonders if she needs a distraction, or if, maybe, her voice can at least provide something different to focus on. Maybe it’ll soothe Charlotte’s internal woes and qualms, as well. In the long run, maybe it’ll help both of them. God only knows silence has done them no favors.  

Blue-green eyes glance in her direction, Charlotte’s lips still sealed. She looks like she wants to say something. If Becky were to turn to her, she’d frown with knitted eyebrows, and she’d ask what’s on her mind. Instead, Becky ignores it. Actually, she doesn’t even feel the burning against her bruised temple. She continues driving.

“How did you first meet Paige?”

The out-of-nowhere voice makes Becky blink hard, then look at Charlotte before turning back to the road. Her hands rub against the steering wheel, arms locking for a moment before her whole body relaxes.

“Oh, um,” she shakes her head partly, remnants of being stuck in her head, and her partner nearly asks if they should switch seats. “There’s... not much story to tell,” it comes with a weak laugh. “Nothing exciting, at least.”

At first, Charlotte assumes the conversation will stop there. By the giant pause that follows the claim of the story being lackluster, she assumes that Becky has ultimately closed herself off from being an open book like when they were sitting in the cave. She assumes that, now, Becky is too focused on saving their partners, willing to seal her thoughts and inner musings off without giving them any gas to work with. Any crack to slip through in order to sacrifice her hardened exposure that says she means business.

The historian is pleasantly surprised when that’s not the case.

“After I’d skipped to England away from the orphanage, I stayed there for a while,” Becky begins, occasionally glancing in Charlotte’s direction. “Longest I’d stayed anywhere. Since I was so young, I wasn’t able to work quite yet, nor did I have anyone to take care of me for a good amount of time. I’d steal food from markets whenever necessary. Building my craft, you could say,” her eyebrows raise with the tiniest, childish grin curving her mouth.

It causes Charlotte to beam more than intended, having to force her lips sealed while leaning against the seat. To get more comfortable, she turns completely, pressing her left shoulder into the leather and tilting her temple against the headrest. She lets herself become enwrapped in the story, and doesn’t mind appearing so. Becky side-eyes her, seeing how attentive she is, and she has to clear her throat.

“Anyway, that was the gist of my self-care. Stealing little things, just to keep living,” she rubs her lips together. _“Until…_ years passed, I was eyeing this one particular fruit stall in a little market. From the comfort of behind an alleyway crate, that is,” her tone lowers, like she’s intentionally stirring up some dramatics. “I waited and waited for my moment. Waited for the owner to back away just enough,” brown eyes squint, raising her right hand to portray how close she was to succeeding. “Before I could move, there was a hand on my shoulder. I froze. Man, I froze,” she chuckles. “Thought it was the cops, you know? But I looked back and there was Paige,” it’s wistful, reminiscent as Becky pauses. “She seemed smug about it. Pressed a finger to her lips and then so-easily went about hustlin’ at least ten pieces of fruit. I was… _baffled.”_

Her blatant enthusiasm and wide eyes get a chuckle from the blonde. In front of them, the Jeep curves around an edging of trees, smoothly driving along as Becky takes a deep breath and resets her original personality in light of the memory.

“I figured she was a street rat like me. I figured she had no home,” the woman’s shoulders tighten, then slump. “When she tossed me all of the fruits except for one, I was confused. You see, I thought I’d be the one to keep a single piece. No more than that,” she scratches the bridge of her nose, and Charlotte’s eyes narrow. “If you’re livin’ on the streets, you get selfish,” this time, she turns to the blonde, giving her a brief, slanted grin that’s self-explanatory.

Charlotte understands where she’s going with it. What Paige’s selflessness meant, in the grand scheme of things. In total, it meant she wasn’t a “street rat” at all. She gives Becky a single, slow nod. Becky breathes out through pursed lips, making a funny noise.

“Turns out, she just lifted for fun,” Becky confesses. “Had a sweet and happy family a few towns away. I asked her why she’d choose to do that if she was already lucky enough to have a family, but I guess ‘lucky’ is always perspectively speaking.”

The historian’s eyes lower to her lap, now playing with her fingers. She can hear Becky’s voice wavering, like it’s trying to set itself on a certain attitude because her mind is heading one way while the story is going another. Charlotte guesses she’s not the only one who’s felt conflicted for most of this ride.

“She ended up sneaking me into her family’s shed,” the memory reroutes. “I’d have shelter there and she’d bring me food,” a sigh exits her nostrils. “One day, she argued with her parents. A huge blow-up about her decisions, I don’t know. Ironic, now that I think of it,” Becky shakes her head. “That night, she came into the shed, asked if I wanted to run with her, and… that’s that. We stuck together.”

Charlotte’s lips part, about to say something before she’s cut off by a quiet addition.

“She’s the only person who’s ever decided to take me with them when leaving. Instead of abandoning me.”

It’s not derived of self-pity, from what Charlotte can tell. It’s like she’d thought of the notion without intent to actually say it. Judging by the way Becky’s mouth opens and closes once it’s in the air, at least. She tries to cover it up, but nothing comes out. She doesn’t want Charlotte to believe that she’s saying, “Woe is me,” or asking for some sort of comfort. Definitely not. Quite frankly, Becky is even surprised that Charlotte is making conversation with her, whether or not it’s simple chitchat.

Still, with Becky trying to push another statement into the open, the historian waits. She’s careful not to dismantle the redhead’s thoughts or attempts to reassure herself that she’s not exposed. If Charlotte knows anything, for certain, about Becky, it’s that she hates feeling vulnerable or peeled back. She hates feeling delicate, and frail. They both know she’s human, yes, but the basic feelings and emotions of a human aren’t on Becky’s list of favorite things. That’s obvious.

Becky finally sighs, letting her thoughts be known ━ also, in a way, letting Charlotte know that she trusts her with vital information and the perceptions that keep her up at night.

“Although her family loved her, I don’t know if she ever loved herself,” Becky admits, solemnly. “Got into some shady riff-raff back in her early teen years, and nothing was the same. I think her parents knew she wouldn’t revert to her old self. I say that because they hardly questioned her whereabouts. She only visited them on a whim, ever, and not much.”

Her tongue drags along her lower lip, thinking for a moment. Charlotte waits, eyes sparkling with hope that Becky keeps talking.

“Even when she died, they didn’t clamor for answers. They didn’t ask anyone,” comes the whisper. “Authorities, her other friends, me. I was too cowardly to face them, as I’d only met them twice, so I left a note in their back window about her passing,” Charlotte picks up on the tremor within the hunter’s words. “Made up some silly story about a car wreck and missing people. I’m sure they looked into it, but…” she hardens her jaw. “God, it’s an insult to her memory. The understatement of what really happened. I’d never felt like I disrespected my best friend until then, and even to this day I cringe.”

She’s stared at. Charlotte frowns heavily, not knowing what to say. Her heart feels like it’s in her throat, preventing her from speaking. She can hardly breathe. All she wants to do is comfort Becky without knowing how. Instead, she’s stuck watching the redhead tear herself up over something complex. Something she couldn’t necessarily control. Becky never asked for any of this, yet she was dealt something extraordinarily obscene and draining. Charlotte knows a simple “It wasn’t your fault” won’t do any good, and, by now, it seems that’s the only thing she knows how to say. On the other hand, she’s not sure if Becky would listen to _anything_ she managed to say, even if she was able to finally drum something up. Maybe it’s too late to change the Irish woman’s mind. Maybe it’s too late to convince her that it’s not her fault, and that she’s been doing the best that she can.

Charlotte’s eyes drift off to the hood of the vehicle. Despite Becky’s fuck-ups, she’s undoubtedly been doing the best that she can. Even if it’s resulted in further problems, she’s still been trying to piece together her collapsing world. Little by little, she’s been trying. Guilt takes over the historian’s body.

“I’m a coward,” the statement is firm, Becky’s knuckles gripping the wheel tighter, and Charlotte looks pained. “But how could I have gone to their home and told them she died chasing a pirate’s treasure? On a venture that _I_ tied her up in?” a breath slumps the hunter’s body, grasp relaxing as her voice falls to a cracked whisper. “This is one instance in which I don’t think I’ll ever _not_ be selfish.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult that must be to carry,” Charlotte offers a response, trying her best to walk in Becky’s shoes.

“Yeah, but I made the choice.”

The Jeep’s wheels take them around a rock formation, curving in a u-shaped path and driving onto a stone slab set like a ramp. It gives the wheels more traction as they vacate the dusty dirt, heading up smoothly with a strenuous whiz. After seconds, they’re driving along a new, flat rock with little to no bumps. Like it’s been smoothed by rain, over the years. Becky breathes steadily, getting sucked back into her mind before Charlotte stops her.

“For what it’s worth…” the historian treads carefully, “I may not have known her, but I’m sure she’d rather it this way. It may be a lie, but it might be an easier pill for her parents to swallow. They get closure without the accompanied confusion of trying to understand her life before that.”

There’s a second or two where Becky gives the idea a nod, like she’s accepting it, or trying to see what Charlotte means. Trying to see how it clicks within her brain. _If_ it does. Only a second or two, though. After that, she feels just as mentally sore if she had prior. The idea has, ultimately, been rejected.

“Does that make it right?” she looks at the woman beside her.

At the question, Charlotte’s tongue moves behind her teeth, then she bows her head. No, it doesn’t make it right. They both know the answer. Either way, Becky admires her dedication to making her feel better. No matter what, she admires it. She internally commends the blonde for doing so, despite not feeling like she deserves it. After everything she put Charlotte through, she has to respect the fact that the blonde remains working to change her mind. To make her see things more optimistically. Charlotte truly is a gem, Becky thinks.

“It’s okay,” the Irish woman comforts with a muted tone. “I’ve already accepted that I’m a coward for lying to them. I don’t mean that in a ‘woe is me’ way, either. It is what it is.”

“Becky, it’s not your responsibility,” her partner says with more conviction, borderline pleading while reaching over the console to put her hand on Becky’s thigh. “I know you think it is, but… you mentioned she had other friends,” her eyes trail off toward the hood of the Jeep, putting her hands back in her own lap. “If Rhea had a heart, she could’ve said something. The prison, somehow, maybe.”

The laugh that Becky gives is weak. Exhausted, more like. Even Charlotte knew it was a desperate attempt, but she wanted to try.

“The prison didn’t give a damn,” Becky brushes off the suggestion. “Rhea lost the _slight_ damn she gave once Lacey came back into the picture. Paige hardly talked to her other friends. She’d always been busy,” each and every one of Charlotte’s points is destroyed, the historian’s posture deflating. “It was me. It’s on me.”

She inhales, then exhales, “But that’s okay. I willingly carry it. Maybe someday I won’t have to anymore. If I could just find them, and… correct the mistake I’ve made. Or at least apologize for it,” her tongue wets her lips. “For now, it keeps me humble.”

Charlotte keeps looking at her, heart sore. She continuously traces Becky’s features, and the perplexity that causes the redhead to appear lost in thought. Lost in the universe, more so. Like she’s not sure of how to go about living properly, but she’s attempting to do it, anyway. She supposes it’s somewhat endearing. How Becky fights to stay alive, no matter what. No matter how many times she believes she’s messed up, and no matter how many times she actually _does_ mess up. Her dedication to staying alive ━ even if, in past instances, she’s wanted to give up ━ is something noble, and something we all need to have acknowledged.

Here Becky is, continuing on, continuing to push forward and aim for goals no matter how large or small, despite everything that the world has set in her path. Despite everything it’s thrown at her, and despite the universe telling her to quit. Sure, she’s squeezed by in the shadiest of fashions, sometimes throwing others under the bus in order to fight through it all, but, at the end of the day, we’d all make the same choice. Right from wrong oftentimes slips our minds when it comes to those we love, what we long for, how we’ve been scorned in the past, and the assets we believe will keep us afloat. Especially if we don’t have anyone to show us what right from wrong truly is, or have an ounce of idea how to change our usual mindset.

Charlotte remembers her own selfishness quite well, and nine out of ten times it was an outcome of the endless traumatic experiences endured throughout Shambhala. Nine out of ten times being a direct result of her mind not knowing which way’s up and which is down. Was it an excuse? No. But she’s learned to stop blaming herself for her desperate fists swinging at anything and everything just to keep herself pushing forward. She’s learned to stop blaming herself for what happened once she had her back pressed into a corner. Therapy taught her how to level her own head, no matter what she’s faced with. She’s used it to her advantage, too. Not everyone has that luxury, however, and not everyone has someone to guide them.

The historian bites her inner cheek, admiring the other woman, thinking about how Becky has come so far without so much as a simple guardian to help her through her years of existence. For someone who’s only held the hand of a similarly stained woman, Becky sure as hell has made a name for herself, and she’s grown into someone complex yet relatable. We’re all trying to survive, and we all get lost sometimes. Charlotte smiles, albeit faintly, and her chin lowers.

Once she looks up again, however, her attention is shifted when Becky has her head ducked, back straightened, staring through the windshield with squinted eyes. The epitome of confused but also surprised, as if she’s thinking that her eyes are deceiving her. Charlotte mimics it, turning to see what she’s staring at. At the sight, she feels the same mixture of bafflement.

“Is that… an _elevator?”_ Charlotte sounds incredulous, stumped by her own inquisition as she leans forward against the dashboard.

As the Jeep stalls atop a stone slab, approximately a hundred yards north of them is a water wheel built between two, crumbling, stone buildings. A large, wooden box rests atop a landing pad roughly fifteen feet away from the right tower, held up by a taut rope that loops around a mechanism above, ultimately leading to an unattached gear. So they guess, at least. Becky notes its quirks and its overall existence. An olden-age elevator likely used to transport cargo onto higher ground where it meets the cliff above. Not the sturdiest form of traveling, she’d assess, but it surely got the job done. After all, it’s still intact. Only the towers have taken to wear and tear, the left one more toppled than its counterpart. Otherwise, the box is fully held together, looking as if it’s made of wooden pallets all nailed together in the oddest of fashions. Becky smiles at the sight, not diminishing her intrigue.

“It’d appear so,” her wrists rest atop the wheel’s peak, slumped forward. “God, Avery thought of everything, didn’t he?”

“Must’ve had some good contacts to complete the engineering on this island.”

“Good contacts, or good money?” Becky looks at her, eyebrows raised and expression pointed.

“Either would do,” the admission is quiet, but just as obvious.

“Mm,” the vehicle hums again once she leans onto the pedal.

On contact, the Jeep slowly creeps down the slant of another rock, rolling them onto deformed ground with various bumps and cracks as stone meets packed dirt mixed with patches of mud. As they stay on their straight path for the elevator, they observe its features. Its size, its appearance rugged with splinters here and there but not much. They focus on how it’s braved the weather throughout the past however-many years, how it’s still standing in light of the shifting ground, the beating rain, the storms, the wind, everything. All it’s doing is sitting on a stone plate, waiting to head upwards by the rope’s command. A basket waiting to be picked up.

Behind it, there’s a cliff where the elevator’s backside will rest its base, likely dropping the backdoor of the basket down onto the rock so its user can exit. As far as designs go, and as far as Becky’s island discoveries go… this is near the top of her list. Second to Libertalia, that is. Pirate engineering is something to remember. It’s always been one of her favorite aspects of doing what she does. Seeing things that have evolved into what we have now.

She has to suppress another smile as she looks around the area. Without the elevator giving them a surefire way to proceed ━ as long as it works ━ they’d be heading into a dead end. Rock walls surround them on three sides, at least seventy feet in height. Pillar-like stacks of stone with flat tops also disturb the space, acting as if they’re stages for people to stand upon and make boring speeches. Podiums or pedestals. Everything is colored brown and green, covered in spotted moisture as it drips down the rocky textures as a result of the nearby waterfalls. Three of them being just past the corner of the water wheel’s left tower, after a drop of a couple hundred feet. The island’s soft and various foliage opposes the rough dirt that’s both wet and dry, the greenery taking over the majority of the area. Dense as ever, reminding them just how deep into the jungle they are. The most prominent feature, however, is the mist that clouds the area. It’s mainly on the left hand side of the barren cliffside, drifting away from the elevator and its accompanying aspects, yet lingering enough to tickle their skin.

Once they’re mere yards away from the box’s frontside, now noticeable by wrought-iron hinges so it opens like a draw-gate, the vehicle comes to a hesitant stop. The engine is cut. They don’t move, though, and instead draw their own, valid perspectives in regards to its size.

“It looks like it can fit the car,” Charlotte voices what they’re both thinking.

“It’ll have to unless we want to continue on foot,” the hunter begins to unbuckle, and her partner does the same. “Seems to be our only way up this side of the mountain.”

The driver’s side door is thrown open and Becky steps out. A splash is heard when she lands in a mud puddle, noticing the ground’s scattered bumps with murky liquid filling their grooves. Courtesy of the closest waterfalls, she presumes. That presumption only strengthens when she takes a few steps closer to the cliff’s edge, noticing that the left tower is perched on a cliff overlooking a series of rapids. Thrashing water, slamming into the side of sharpened rocks much like the canine-teeth boulders that they were thrown into during the storm. It comes with the sound of white noise, fizzling in her ears while the acoustics within the clearing become more noticeable. The cuckooing birds, the creak of the water wheel, the rustling of the trees rooted into the cliffs above.

In any other circumstance, she’d bask in its beauty. She’d revel in the nature of it. All of it. The sounds, the sights, the surreal aura of everything culminating into one bubble of perfection. Here, the only thing continuously catching her eye is the mechanism in front of them. What it has to offer, like the subject of rarity.

You can walk almost anywhere to find a waterfall, to find trees, birds, flowers… but it’s very slim-picking that you stumble upon an old, pirate-built elevator and its own power source. Even the two buildings are crumbling yet still upright. Still doing what they’re supposed to, casing the water wheel and providing refuge to the workers who’d run it. Like most buildings they’ve stumbled upon, the structures are made of white, flaking stone with exposed beams and boards seeping through cracks of the mortar. The water wheel is stationed between them, and Becky guesses that the mounds of fallen blocks on the ground beneath used to make up a rounded archway framing the wooden piece. Protecting it from outside sources until they protected it from too much, then collapsed. Now, half of the left wing is entirely fallen, entirely rubbled to its skeleton, only to leave behind three levels of wooden decking. All exposed with vines and vegetation overtaking, even growing into the cracks split in the corner pillars, like they’re pretending to help.

The right building is predominantly solid, only losing a dozen or so pieces of rock throughout its standing. Similar to its left counterpart, greenery takes the building as its hostage, but only makes it look more beautiful. More aged. It contains an open room at the top, just beneath the flat roof, rounded at its face with what resembles an archway. Like it was supposed to be open, ready to be seen through as Avery’s subjects worked the elevator when cargo suppliers drove up to the wooden box. The room also has a stray beam sticking out of it, along with more pieces of wood fallen to the ground. Remnants of a balcony, Becky nods to herself.

With a hum, Becky walks five steps to the right. She gets on her tippy toes once she’s set, hoping to get a good look of what’s inside the right tower’s top room. Even with the obscure angle, she’s able to make out the color of rusted metal, following its shape to understand it’s a large handle that’s connected to a flat plate with grooves in it. Becky moves to the left, following it to the wheel’s side where she gets a better understanding of it’s usage: when pushed flush to the water wheel, it acts as a rotator for the elevator’s track. With it attached, the box will be brought upward by the rope, leading into the air and ultimately to the cliff’s edge.

Remarkable, Becky thinks.

A slight jolt moves her body, an _“aha!”_ moment that’s unspoken. Through quick motions, she turns back to the Jeep and brings her backpack over to the driver’s side, automatically rifling through it. Charlotte tears her attention away from the elevator, arms crossed, when she sees Becky slip her journal from the bag. She tries to ignore it ━ the sight of Becky being so childish, so dedicated to her craft with the shiniest eyes. It’s too much to handle with her sore heart, honestly. Even if it’s one of the hunter’s most endearing aspects, it’s still bittersweet. The historian leans her butt against the hood of the car, looking indifferent and taking a breather. God knows she needs it.

“Did you see?” the Irish woman sounds enthusiastic, though focused on finding a blank page. “My book’s okay. A little worn and stuck in some places, but manageable,” her nose is practically pressed to the middle crease as she rambles, but her eyes lift when Charlotte doesn’t answer.

A tiny smile is given, the historian’s gaze floating away as she licks her lips and bows her head. The expression ━ or lack thereof ━ makes Becky’s body language grow reserved, defeated and somewhat rejected, giving Charlotte’s still-hurt attitude a tiny nod that goes unseen. It tells the historian that she understands, and that she accepts it. Sure, it’s mutually as hurtful, but Becky gets it. Again, part of her says she deserves it.

Pushing those thoughts away, her focus zeroes in on the journal cradled in her hands. Brown eyes move from the view in front of them to where her permanent pen sketches out the image with careful precision.

Nearby, Charlotte sulks in her thoughts. Her reluctance to accept that Becky is trying, and that she’s _been_ trying, and that she’s just a simple human making blunders and stumbling through everything. She sulks in her refusal to listen to her heart as it screams for her to forgive the woman nearby. Internally, the bigger part of her wishes she wasn’t trying her best to stay upset. She wishes she wasn’t having conflicting feelings about Becky, or what they’ve been through together. Fuck, she even wishes that her brain wasn’t putting up a defense against the redhead while her heart pleads with her to dismantle it.

All she wants to do is indulge. To slide against the dirt and peek over Becky’s shoulder, only enough to get a glimpse at what she’s drawing. After all, she’s sure Becky would let her see. Even if Charlotte flat-out asked instead of sneaking up behind her and _stealing_ a look. Hell, even yesterday, when they were in that globe chamber, she’s sure Becky would’ve allowed her to see the sketch if she’d asked. Now, after today’s events, it’s as though _Charlotte’s_ pride is what’s getting in the way of them moving forward. Of the air being free of mild animosity or leftover strain. It’s as if her own pride is going to tear them apart instead of Becky’s objection of listening, or changing her ways. Oh, how the tables have turned, she thinks.

Then again, is it her pride? Or is it merely her common sense that keeps her from acting like everything is okay? Like they can push all the hurt, all the irritation and heartbreak aside for their own, climactic benefit of getting past the roadblock coined as their “pride”? For their own benefit of falling together, sharing a chaste kiss, whispering sweet-nothings and going to save their friends? Life’s not that simple. It stopped being that simple during childhood, when the pretending ceased to exist, when the make-believe turned into distant goals that would never be achieved because they were next to impossible. Because, once you stop pretending, reality creeps in, and it’s nowhere near as fun. It’s nowhere near as coddling or comforting or easy to deal with. It’s not as straightforward, and you can’t throw a tantrum to change the events around you, or to get what you want.

In reality, you have to acknowledge your pain, your fear, your distastes and everything negative. You have to live with those ailments, and survive, and hopefully find a way to deal with the marks that become embedded into your soul. From the smallest things to the biggest. No matter what, they’re permanent. Even if they fade, they’re still there. That’s what reality is. Living with what you’ve been given, and finding a way to push through despite the added weight you carry.

_Right?_

Charlotte shifts her jaw. Then again, when you’re stranded on a pirate island, it all gets even more challenging. Charlotte turns to Becky when she hears a soft clap come from her journal closing.

“Alright,” it’s slipped into the main compartment of her bag. “Let’s see what we’re working with…”

Becky wanders closer to the structure, yet again being enamored by its size. Charlotte uncrosses her arms and follows, doing the same in examining its parts one by one. Her eyes narrow at the water wheel, noting how massive it is, on its own. It spans nearly the same height as the three-story towers, being at least eight feet wide. It’s made of solid wood, as well, with water dripping from compartment to compartment in a consistent motion. One that could make oneself mesmerized, in time.

As Becky moves over to the left-hand side of the cliff, she searches the ruins of the tower. Looking at its exposed beams, more than anything. From what she can see, it has windows on its western side, the wall still upright and standing. The eastern part hasn’t been as fortunate, taking ninety percent of Mother Nature’s force. There’s one other aspect that Becky hadn’t noticed before while paying attention to the structure’s details, and it isn’t until now that she finds that the cliff is split in half. Between the cliff she stands upon and the next, there’s a gorge that separates them by enough space to see through to the rushing water below. She gulps. Looking past it, she detects a path between the current slab of rock and the next, an indent where something used to lie. Once she turns her head to the right, she finds shaped, smoothed stones that resemble stairs. A walkway, perhaps. A miniature staircase that lead down to the lower cliff, connecting the two. A place where they’d walk downwards to reach the left building without having to jump from level to level ━ A.K.A. what she’s going to have to do.

“You think it still works?” Charlotte makes a face once Becky turns around. “The water wheel obviously does.”

“I’m starting to question it, myself,” Becky huffs, beginning to stretch. “I’ll have to see when I’m up there.”

The absentminded decision causes Charlotte to look at her. Breath halting, and hardly blinking. Outwardly, stone-faced. She can’t help but think about Becky’s recent injuries. Her busted lip, the bruise on her temple, her scraped cheek, the nick on her forehead. Her wounds everywhere, and minor cuts in an assortment of places. She thinks about how the Irish woman had fallen so many feet ━ multiple times ━ and hasn’t yet broken in half. Hasn’t been hindered, or stopped by anything. It only makes her wonder if that’ll happen in the near future. If one of these upcoming obstacles will bring her the inevitable fate of being destroyed. By this point, Charlotte is waiting for it. _Dreading_ it.

On the other side of things, as much as she hates admitting it, Charlotte knows it’s what has to be done. As much as she wants to clamor for an alternative option, there’s no way to move forward unless she allows Becky to do what she does best. Even if that means risking the treasure hunter’s well-being.

Oh, how the tables have turned. _Again._

Her lips purse, Charlotte having to shake her head free of her overrunning, prodding thoughts. She can’t think like that, or be so negative about what would happen. Feet away, Becky witnesses the motion, mouth opening in dismay as if Charlotte is upset with her again.

“Charlotte━” she tries, cut off.

“I know,” the blonde comforts with reluctance, holding her hands out slightly before curling her fingers and crossing her arms in partial defense.

Becky thinks that’s it. She thinks that’s all the blonde is going to offer her before she walks away, before she goes jumping and climbing. As if, nowadays, it’s just standard. No other comment is given. Charlotte doesn’t even look like she’s going to say anything else, either, which is why Becky begins to walk away. That is, until she hears the historian speak again. _Shyly._

“Just… be careful.”

She’s so stunned by the mellow tone her partner uses, that her brain entirely checks out. Gone, completely. And, against Becky’s pleasure, her common sense leaves with it.

“When have you ever known me to be careful?” the crude joke slips before she can stop it, kicking herself once she turns around to see Charlotte looking at her without a readable expression. “I mean… sorry. Bad timing,” it’s said under her breath, shifting her boots before she lifts her chin. “I promise, I will.”

It takes an elongated second or two, but the sincerity earns a nod accompanied by a small grin. The gradual acceptance and agreement that Becky needed. Mirroring the faint emotion of awkwardness mixed with overgrown thinking, it’s Becky’s cue to go on her merry way. She doesn’t give it a second thought, either. She can’t afford to. As she walks away, Charlotte watches. It isn’t until Becky is out of earshot that she offers her joke a tiny chuckle, also shaking her head before forcibly sealing her lips. Bad timing, the historian mentally repeats Becky’s words.

Clearing the gorge between the two cliffs is easy. Becky starts her short-lived jog while she’s a few feet from the larger cliff’s edge. At the very last second, she launches herself to the second, touching down with the flats of her boots as her knee meets the ground to secure her. A normal routine. What isn’t routine is what happens when she tries to stand upright: once she takes two steps toward the tower, she nearly trips over her own foot. It forces the Irish woman to stumble and stretch her arms outright, breathing out a sharp exhale with a frown. During her brief pause, Becky peers over her shoulder in relief to find that Charlotte isn’t watching her. That relief being derived both of plausible embarrassment and also because she doesn’t want to provide the historian yet another reason to worry. Although, they already know she isn’t the most coordinated. Not always, at least. Becky snickers at herself, taking a good look at the collapsing tower.

Her hands move to her hips, tilting her head to the side. Brown eyes scour the ruins. The various, broken yet simultaneously solid beams holding it together like a wooden skeleton. The exposed supports sticking out from the oddest areas. Like a giant, terribly constructed Jenga. Its stones are chipping all along the surface, flaking slivers of the white material crumpled to the ground in a dusty mound. Her boots already lather themselves in the chalky residue, Becky leaving disturbed footprints wherever she walks along the cliffside. A hum exits her throat, lifting her chin to continue her search of an entry point.

Within the blown-through room, dusty pieces of wood rest in an array of positions. Standing up, lying on their sides, broken into shards ready to be put together again. Desks, chairs, crates, the normal antiques she’s found throughout her time on the island. Nothing that stands out, quite frankly. Above anything, Becky studies the tallest, horizontal piece of decking. It sticks out from the topmost level. Acting as a catwalk, she thinks. Its form is a skinny piece of wood, mimicking a path as it protrudes all the way in front of the water wheel. Just a gap away from a skinny beam poking out from the right tower’s open room. Its observatory, Becky decides. Overall, her path will be a straight shot to the large handle-like object in the right tower. A straight shot to press the handle’s flattened end to the water wheel to get this show on the road.

To find their friends.

Becky takes a large breath at the thought. Her eyes flutter shut as the new air fills her lungs, then leaves again. Once more, her gaze is clear, and she can think straight. The hunter turns her head to see that she’s now being watched, flashing the historian a synthetic, beaming grin before it falls flat.

“Goin’ in,” she yells over to Charlotte, narrating her impending whereabouts.

A thumbs-up answers her. Good enough, Becky muses.

The familiar, musky scent fills her nostrils when she enters the building. There are infinite holes and crevices for the aroma to filter through. Her nose crinkles. The age of the building mixed with being next to a rushing, active body of water has done the air no favors. Nevertheless, she walks across the ground covered in splinters, dust, dirt, and packed remnants of the stone’s chips. There are thick, grey layers covering each piece of furniture, untouched for centuries. She has to refrain from dragging her fingers along, or leaving a note saying, _“Becky Lynch was here.”_ The idea earns a smirk, though.

Becky’s chin raises to the ceiling, her focus exploring the criss-crossing beams above with the next floor being only halfway installed. Currently, it resembles a loft without a railing. Luckily enough, it’s an easy and unobstructed climb. Three supports cemented to the wall’s interior prove to be handy as she props herself up. Her ascent is simple, and she’s mindful of slivers as she keeps her grasp gentle on the wooden planks. No cracks or creaks are heard, giving her a peace of mind.

Once she’s standing upon the second floor’s platform, she’s surrounded by four walls. The only group of walls that are completely upright, compared to the bottom floor having one missing, and the top level having one and a half ruined into the cliffside. The redhead inhales again, puffing out her cheeks and turning to the nearest wall. More importantly, its two, open windows. Her only way to move forward, if she can find a way to scale the building.

Without wasting anymore time, she pokes her head through the left window. There, she observes the wall around its frame. The cracks in it, the vines covering its majority, and the feature which she desired to find: more exposed, wooden planks.

 _“And_ goin’ out,” her right leg straddles the window’s base, carefully easing herself onto the sill before her eyes catch a glimpse at the rapids below. “Holy _sh━”_ she cuts herself off, leaning her forehead against the stone for a blink. “Good thing Sash isn’t here. She’d _hate_ this,” it comes with a chuckle, finally exiting the window fully.

The toes of her boots are set onto a wooden plank only feet below the window, fingers still curled around the sill. All around her, she hears the consistent white noise of the various falls, even blocking the trees’ rustling and the sound of wildlife running through their jungle residence. It’s unnerving, she decides. With that said, Becky knows she must find a way to ignore the fact that she’s hanging above ━ once again ━ sheerly open air with nowhere to go except forward on her task, or down to her death. She’s not sure the rapids would be so kind, nor the drop before that. What a peachy thought. Her teeth grit, and she begins to climb the horizontal planks.

It reminds her of the ones they used as a ladder to head upwards before all four of them swung to the wealthier district of Libertalia. Becky gives the memory ━ the _distraction_ ━ a half-smile, flexing her biceps and using their full power to pull herself up board by board.

“Need an elevator to fix the freakin’ elevator.”

Above her, there’s an identical, open window. The place she’ll dive through to get away from the distressing height that attempts to whisper reminders in her ear in the form of that white noise. She shudders, but focuses on the window. The platform which rests just inside that window, as well. It’s granted a shaky smile and a bizarre giggle through the pain ailing her. Her irritated ribs, arms, legs, you name it. Her bruises, her cuts, her scrapes, her sore windpipe. Again, Becky shakes her head at the idea. There’s no way she’s about to sulk in how achey she feels. Not when her friends could be enduring literal _torture_ right now.

The thought warrants a spurt of anger. A red film that shades her eyes in a jolt of energy that causes her strength to amplify. All resulting in her arms pulling her back into the building so fast that she falls onto her face with a groan.

“I’ve _gotta_ stop doing that,” she rasps, coughing twice.

Her palms are placed against the boards so she can rise to her feet. The Irish woman brushes her camo pants free of stray sawdust, then her hands clap together to clean them, as well.

The floor is more solid than the lower level. Currently, she stands within an actual room with a completed floor. Less like a loft, in contrast to the prior level. As previously noticed, its eastern wall is missing, and some of the northern. It provides her with perfect access to the board she’ll need to walk along to reach the outstanding beam of the right tower. As she moves closer, she can also see Charlotte. Feet below, in the same spot which she left her, the historian stands with her arms crossed. Until she sees Becky, that is.

On sight, the treasure hunter swears that Charlotte gives her a genuine smile at her reemergence, her arms uncrossing in the process. It falters as fast as it came, however.

“Good, you’re still in one piece.”

The tone is flat yet holds flickers of sentiment. Becky picks up on it immediately. It’s as if she truly means the words, yet still can’t help but sound fractured. Somewhat awkward, or reserved. Relieved, yet perpetually conflicted. The redhead’s lips purse, and her head bows. Becky supposes Charlotte’s reactions and replies will stay like that for a while. She doesn’t blame the historian for being relatively callous. If she can even call it that.

Her posture slumps, heel turning along the deck so she can follow its modest bend leading her across the water wheel’s front. Mist coats her skin, a fresh shimmer on her arms as it joins her previous sweat from climbing. It feels nice, she decides. The coolness against her body in some places that have been scraped by the rough surface of rock. It stings, but delivers a soothing sensation that she didn’t know she needed. That’s the end of her relaxation. Because, with another step, she feels two or three creaks come from the thin decking beneath her soles. Her weight sagging the boards below with intention of possibly snapping. Becky’s lips seal in dismay, but she doesn’t pause for long. It’s best to keep moving, it’s best to not give the planks a reason to shatter.

Although the catwalk feels sturdy, its profound cracking and loosened pieces drifting to the ground are daunting elements that cause her breath to halt. All she needs to do is reach the skinny beam five feet ahead. She chants a quiet “Careful, careful, careful” to herself, in the meantime. Charlotte watches from below, thinking the same. The equal feeling of nervousness causes her body to stiffen where she stands, hands balled into fists by her sides, and arms taut to her hips.

They both relax when Becky jumps to the beam. There, her knees are bent as she dangles from the piece of wood.

“I’ll bring the car to the elevator.”

“Good call,” Becky replies through clenched teeth, shimmying horizontally.

Breathy grunts exit her throat as she moves across the beam to the right tower’s observatory. Only twice does she allow herself to glance past her hanging boots to see how high up she is. In both instances, she grimaces. The process isn’t long, and she’s soon relieved of the tension on her torso. Her ribs can breathe again.

She meets the stone structure within another three seconds, feet pressing down as she slips into the open-faced tower. The Jeep’s engine roars in the distance. Revving, then puttering as Charlotte steers it up into the wooden box’s drawn door. To secure both herself and the vehicle within the elevator, the blonde pulls the door upward and locks its hinges. Becky notices that the elevator’s opposite side also exists as a back door, identical hinges waiting to be unlocked. Inside the container, a self-directed nod is given when the securing process is complete. She then turns to Becky.

“Ready!”

The large, metal handle resides right behind her. Waiting for her to tend to it, to push it in and connect its gear to the water wheel. Waiting for her to start the elevator, and get them back on track with finding Sasha and Bayley. With stopping Lacey and Rhea. Becky huffs, then spins around.

Up close, the object is larger than she initially observed. It’s roughly the width of a standardized dresser, looking like the end of a key. A round-edged rectangle, attached to a solid pole that slides through the wall. It’s made of old, rusty piping, the surface chipping away and dented in some areas. It holds clear usage, its ending plate having spaces hammered into grooves that will ultimately mesh with the water wheel’s side. Once they’re pressed together, the mechanism will be live ━ so they hope ━ and the elevator will be sure to move to its destination. Just like that.

Becky claps her hands together, bracing herself. Next, her flat palms are leaned against the piece of metal, cupped and curving with the rounded pipes. It takes most of her strength, but she uses her arms’ full allowance to slide the key-like object forward with a sharp creaking filling the air. A clunk follows. Then, a locking sound. Once it’s in place, she feels the tower starting to vibrate. Unlike when they first arrived on the original island, it doesn’t panic her. Instead, with a curious grin, she jogs to the edge of the platform. In the distance, with Charlotte and their Jeep inside, the cage lifts off the ground.

Until it stops.

Three feet from its landing pad, the elevator hovers in the air, and the towers’ vibration stops quaking her boots. Her shoulders slump. Charlotte feels the same annoyance, rubbing her forehead before slapping her hand onto her thigh.

“What now?” the historian yells to her, rubbing the back of her neck.

 _It’s not looking good,_ Becky wishes to say.

“You know what? The gears are _really_ rusty,” she gives the universe a pronounced shrug, then looks back at the wheel while practically talking to it. “No wonder since it’s all been exposed to the weather, it’s aged, wooden in some places, and who knows if━”

“Nevermind, we’re good!” the blonde laughs as it begins to move again ━ faster than before. “Uh, you might want to hurry up and catch a lift, too,” she sounds mildly panicked, and brown eyes widen.

“Oh, no you _don’t.”_

She taunts the elevator as she sprints along a stray beam jutting out from the tower’s side. It leads to a large section of rock that she carefully runs along, knowing her window of catching up to the elevator is growing slim. The box’s lid passes the rock, Charlotte and the car ready to leave her behind. At the very last second, Becky speeds up with determined features, launching herself through the air and onto the elevator’s side.

A grunt accompanies the way she smacks her body against it, grasping onto the outer, wooden boards. Her nails dig into the rotten beams, hanging on for dear life as they’re brought along the rope-drawn track.

The two women are separated by a wall. Skinny fragments of wood holding the cage together with rusted nails and planks going in all different directions. While Becky looks around, Charlotte finds her partner’s position amusing. She snickers, then tilts her head to the side. Once the redhead looks back at her, Charlotte raises her eyebrows. All the while, the treasure hunter catches her breath from the run, chest rising and falling in pretend that she’s braving the growing height below her hanging body. Thankfully, the toes of her boots are pressed to the bottom board of the elevator, providing her some leverage and further strength against her numbing arms. She leans her head back, laughing at her own misfortune.

“Glad you could make it,” the historian regains her attention, smug.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Their bodies lurch as the elevator gets stuck again. They’re hung high in the air now, and only Becky is on the outside. She makes a face, leaning her forehead against the wooden wall. Charlotte watches her go through a wave of exhaustion, giving the other woman a half-smile that’s sympathetic. Becky doesn’t see.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” she leans herself away from the board, arms extended so she can look around the area. “Sit tight. I’ll go dislodge the track, or… _something.”_

“That’s comforting,” Charlotte sounds the least bit bothered, and it earns a chuckle.

Just feet to her left, a cliff is at jumping distance. It’s an isolated pillar of rock, a cylindrical structure with nowhere to walk to. Still, it’s a better jumping pad than the elevator, itself. Not giving it a second thought, Becky kicks off the wooden floor and throws herself sideways. On contact, her fingers grip onto the rock’s ledge, watching the box wiggle once she’s standing atop the stone formation. She’s about to turn away, too. She’s about to jump from this cliff to the next, ready to round the giant formation between the next, major cliff and the elevator’s ultimate destination. “About to” being the key phrase.

“Elevator’s moving again,” the blonde can’t help but giggle at Becky’s face dropping, her shoulders slumping, and her posture just overall looking dumbfounded.

 _Defeated,_ more like. Becky can’t even move. She’s frozen in place, cursing the world. Cursing her own luck, and how the universe, well, _hates_ her.

 _“What?”_ her voice cracks. “Come _on.”_

“Hey, I didn’t ask for this to happen,” Charlotte continues her amusement, the box gliding across the sky while Becky stands and watches it.

Even though she’s not trying to make Becky’s life a living hell now, the island sure is having a great time doing it for her.

“Guess I’m taking the scenic route, anyway.”

The statement is muttered as she faces the next cliff. There’s still some height to clear before she can make it to the top, she calculates. Onward and upward, her eyes roll in annoyance. To the left, there’s another waterfall that she’ll have to avoid. Not as big as the rapids near the left tower, but still significant. Still nothing she’d like to be caught up in. Against its rocky outcrop is a path, bringing a skinny, dirt and mud road around the curve of the tall, rock formation that now obstructs her view of Charlotte within the elevator. Becky purses her lips and breathes out, creating a funny noise that vibrates her mouth. It’s halted once she jumps to an adjacent piece of rock, biting the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she climbs using natural handholds. In the process, she curses the events and Avery’s contraption. How the island is now just trying to spite her with everything it’s got.

 _Bring it on,_ Becky mentally dares the mass of land.

So, maybe it wasn’t her best idea. At least, that’s what her superstitious mentality scolds.

She shakes her head free of the potential outcomes, grabbing onto the ultimate cliff’s edge. For a moment, she hangs there. The blood in her arms rushes downwards more rapidly than it has in previous hours. She can tell her body is starting to slow down its functioning. Starting to give up, in various ways, and pleading with her for another rest. Sitting with Charlotte in that cave wasn’t long enough. It didn’t give her the proper breather. Besides, she spent most of that time-frame weeping and recounting memories that were like a swift blow to the gut. Becky is sure it did her no favors, even if it got her somewhere with Charlotte. Even if it made the historian think about giving her one last chance. That’s all she needs: one last chance. Red hair presses to the cliff’s side, shoulders rising and falling as her fingers twitch against the rocks she’s held onto.

“Gotta move,” the encouragement is delivered through a strained groan.

With her face contorting in pain, Becky pulls herself onto the hard surface. Onto her stomach where she army crawls a bit further onto a patch of fluffy grass. It’s a comforting, prickly sensation against her naked skin. A laugh even exits her mouth when she feels the sweet vegetation. The warmth it contains from the seven o’clock sun. It brings about the idea that she’s made it. She’s cleared another obstacle. All she has to do is round the rocky obstacle, jog down a slope and find Charlotte waiting for her.

That’s all she━

“I’ve got you!”

Her body freezes at the man’s voice. From what she can tell, he’s not too far away, and she’s out in the open. Confirmation comes when Becky raises her head. Three bullets whiz by her ear, and she all but dives behind a compact piece of stone. She can tell she scraped her elbow, in the process.

“For the love of shit,” she grunts.

The Jeep’s spare gun is slid from her holster, Becky gripping its handle.

Compared to the other instances of handling a weapon, the hunter is more fed up in this round. She’s sick of having to use it, having to take endless lives ━ even in self-defense ━ but won’t hesitate to do so. Her hands still shake, her wrists still wobble, and her finger still twitches. Her teeth also grit. However, this time, it’s in determination to proceed. Determination to find Charlotte, then Sasha and Bayley, all so they can escape this place. Treasure be damned, by now.

Here, she’s not about to let herself be separated from the blonde again. No way.

Two more shots are sent flying in her direction, followed by the sing-song taunt of “Come out, come out.”

There’s no doubt that more soldiers stalk them. Near or far. Her heart thumps against her chest as she listens to the silence. The crunching of leaves beneath the assailant’s feet. Becky knows he’s not the only person who’s followed them. She _knows_ it. But, with the way he’s cornering her, she’s not sure where the others are. She’s not sure if he’s part of a search party, or if he’d branched off on his own for the time being. Her eyes narrow.

Taking a breath, gripping the weapon securely, she whips around and retaliates. Two rounds are shot in his direction, Becky’s arms straightened atop the rock hiding her body with her nose scrunched, and her enemy dodges both. It makes her grunt once he hides to mimic her tactic, Becky falling back onto her butt to protect herself from his oncoming strikes. A shoot-out ensues. The two exchanging bullets that miss wildly, ping off nearby rocks, and create an overall ruckus. It makes her wonder if Charlotte hears, or if she’s even out of the elevator yet. She can’t think about it too much, however. Not when she hears the perpetrator scuffling behind another obstacle in an attempt to throw her off. In an attempt to draw her fire elsewhere while getting the jump on her.

It doesn’t.

Because, once she raises her head again, he inadvertently exposes himself by peeking out from behind a fallen log. She hits him immediately. One, two, three bullets into his collarbone area. A final shot goes through his neck, blood splattering along the ground. She grimaces and turns away as his body thuds against the dirt.

Her surroundings fall quiet, and she knows he’s dead. If the scene of his jugular imploding wasn’t enough of a sign, that is. At the rekindling serenity, the returning white noise of the falls, the Irish woman breathes out a sigh of relief. She goes to, at least.

“Get away from me!”

 _Charlotte,_ Becky thinks with wide eyes.

Faster than they have in recent moments ━ probably for the entirety of this trip ━ her feet move across the flattened cliffside. She jumps down onto the dirt path, avoiding the muddy patches that could cause her to slip and fall. The parts that could cause her to be too late. She rounds the rock that’s obstructed her vision of the elevator, and that’s when the sound of bullets hitting metal are heard. Multiple rounds. Her vision blurs as she runs, ignoring the pain in her side to the point where she doesn’t feel it at all. She refuses to feel it. Not when her heart is about to burst for multiple reasons. Not when she could be sprinting to view a gruesome, Earth-shattering scene that would inevitably make her go on a rampage. No. _No._

Her feet don’t even stop to calculate the jump across a gorge that splits the ground in half. Instead, she moves faster and propels herself forward without a measly hesitation. She surpasses the rushing liquid of the waterfall’s opening, feeling splashes coat her fingertips as she flies by. Nothing else matters. Nothing matters aside from reaching the blonde who’s seemingly in trouble.

“I’m coming, Charlotte!”

A harsh thud echoes the ground once her boots slam onto the following piece of rock, clearing the waterfall’s branched-off opening. Immediately, she’s picking up speed and running down the sloping path with outstretched arms and peeled eyes, easing her head to the side in order to peek around the rock’s final stretch of obstruction. The firearm that’s gripped in her palms is cocked, ready to be fired at absolute will, and she locks her forearms. It’s aimed straight ahead. No funny business, no hesitation. Whoever is daring to pester the historian won’t last another blink. Not today. She’s done fooling around. The scuffle sounds closer, followed by a gruffy “No, wait━” that’s cut right as Becky rounds the corner.

Much to her intrigue and unhindered surprise, she doesn’t need her gun. She doesn’t need to help at all. Because, as soon as the skirmish is set in front of her, it’s ended by Charlotte’s own power. With a little help from the Jeep, that is. As soon as Becky witnesses the two, armed soldiers with their guns drawn, bulleted dents peppered into the vehicle’s metal, she’s also stuck in the slow-motion scene of the car’s engine revving, the elevator door slamming to the ground, and the wheels skidding forward. She witnesses the men’s fate. The pair being run over with a collective thunk. A deadly thunk, too. Passed over, yet halfway parked upon. Their guns stop, and the silence returns.

Becky’s mouth drops open at the sight, jaw unhinging with its own, firm creak that’s felt in her bones. Charlotte, meanwhile, raises her head from being ducked as her grip relaxes on the wheel. The redhead sees the faint mark of sweat against the black leather. A result of her partner squeezing it so tightly and for so long that a silhouette is held for seconds longer. Silence abound, the historian turns to Becky with deep breaths tumbling from her lips, an expression of exasperation overtaking her features.

“I am so _sick_ of being shot at.”

The statement gets an impish reaction from Becky. One that’s a combination of amusement and wariness, but she’s also terrified. In the end, she manages to flash the blonde an odd, _“I need to sit down”_ type of grin that’s both impressed yet stirred. As if she’s wondering why she’s ever pissed the woman off. Of all the ways to take out someone who’s wronged her…

She swallows hard. Her throat scratches, feeling dry.

Feet away, Charlotte stalls the vehicle and climbs over the center console. Her butt hits the passenger’s seat as she flops against its leather, getting situated like she’d been before they stumbled upon the elevator. Becky stands in place, silent and unmoved. Zoned out while staring at the men lying mostly behind the car. She doesn’t realize how wide and fearful her eyes are, how they’re drying out from not blinking for an extended time. In fact, Charlotte notices before she does.

“Are you coming?”

There’s a trace of enjoyment in her voice. A height to it. Like she understands why Becky is so put-off, but is also amused by it. How her mouth is still slack, how her features are contemplative, eyebrows knitted together in perplexity, how her bruised arms hang lifelessly by her sides with the gun dangling between her fingertips. Most of all, how she’s focused on the men squished into the dirt, completely railed by the Jeep. Charlotte is sure they’re both branded by its license plate. Good.

But the Irish woman’s dismay is fixed and erased ━ hidden, more like ━ when she lifts her gaze to see Charlotte staring. Her mouth closes so fast that her teeth clack together.

“I… um,” she clears her throat. “Yeah, yeah, I am.”

She ignores the crack in her voice, but it makes Charlotte’s smirk intensify. With careful movements, Becky speed-walks around the Jeep’s hood, purposely expanding her path around its frontside into a wider arc, before climbing into it. Before touching the gear, the gun is slid back into its holster on her belt. A subtle clip disturbs the quiet air, but not enough to distract Becky from the burning gaze on her temple. The car is put in drive, and they’re on their way.

The movement doesn’t deter Charlotte from her game, however. She watches her partner, noting how she hardly looks back at her. When she uses her peripherals, on the other hand, she appears spooked. Cautious. Awkward, even. The historian smirks at how shaken she seems. How… lost in thought, and curious. Like the treasure hunter’s mind dedicatedly focuses on what could be her fate if she nudged Charlotte too far. If she _pushed_ her too far. The thought almost makes the blonde laugh, but she manages to keep her lip tucked between her teeth.

She can’t let it go, in reality. It’s humorous, she thinks. She’s having too much fun pushing Becky’s buttons, even without mentioning it. Even if she were to face the front of the car, she’d feel the redhead’s nerves from a mile away. The woman’s energy outright screams trepidation. Perhaps lacking the darker aspect of the word, at least. It makes Charlotte feel powerful. Challenging, moreover. Knowing that Becky is rethinking her place in stepping out of line. Rethinking her lies, probably, or all the times she hadn’t told them the “full extent” of the truth.

With that, Charlotte turns to her, the smirk on her face growing deeper with each passing second that Becky’s posture stiffens. The hunter’s hands grip the steering wheel as they’re on a straight stretch of dirt road, the tension palpable. Suffocating. Absolutely unbearable, if you were to ask the Irish woman.

“Becky.”

“Hm?”

Charlotte watches her throat bob. A swallow of her fear, she presumes. Her eyebrows raise when she’s not turned to.

“You good?” her tone is intrusive, but lightly so ━ _knowingly_ so.

Becky detects the amusement at her expense. Even when she’s focusing on the road, she can feel Charlotte’s eyes on her. Waiting for an answer, or for her to slip up. For her to admit that she’s reconsidering what she’s done in the past, or that she’s paranoid in regards to what Charlotte would brashly do. Because, even though, deep down, Becky knows that Charlotte would never treat her like a common enemy, and even though she understands that the historian’s actions were out of clear defense… it’s still something to think about. She’s done some shitty things recently, and Charlotte even admitted that she nearly left her behind. Who’s to say the blonde wouldn’t want revenge? _Fuck._

In light of her rampant and illogical thoughts, Becky tries her best to force her pale face back to its normal shade. A mistake is made, though, when her mouth opens and closes in hopes that she’ll be able to respond, ultimately giving away her nervousness.

“Becks,” the nickname is used to her advantage, trying again with the redhead’s knuckles turning a faint white.

“Yeah, I’m━I’m good, yeah,” after she speaks, she wishes she hadn’t.

Both of them pick up on the crack in her response, how her tone accidentally heightens in random places. Becky could slam her eyes shut, but she won’t. She keeps her view clear, sealing her lips. Charlotte assesses the woman next to her, looking her up and down with that never-disappearing enthusiasm. She thinks about how Becky’s _yeah_ ’s always expose her, always grow more frequent when she’s in a mentally uncomfortable position. Oftentimes, it’s what reveals her true mindset after she’d vehemently proclaimed she’s fine. It’s always the telltale sign of Becky’s self-directed reassurance that forever falls flat. A contradiction of many proportions. A surefire giveaway that she’s not okay, or that she’s at least lost in her inner musings. Her paranoia, sometimes outrageously tormenting. And, normally, Charlotte would comfort her with little to no ulterior motives other than to make sure Becky’s mentality is clear.

This time, it just so happens to be something that makes Charlotte think they can be even. Even if it’s silly. It just so happens to be humorous enough for the historian whose cheeks blush before she forces the color to retreat. She bites down hard on her lower lip. No, she’s not about to reveal herself as equally flustered. _Definitely_ not because of Becky’s adorable quirks. Not now. The color fades on instruction with the help of a sigh, tilting her head to the side and narrowing her eyes.

“Look at me.”

The request is gentle yet prying. Becky wants to ignore it. She really does. But, as always, Charlotte’s careful and kind voice proves to be too much. The hunter turns her head, albeit briefly since she’s driving. Charlotte, in that short second, gives her an insightful grin. A smug one, at that.

“I’d _never_ run you over.”

A shaky laugh responds. Becky reverts to staring straight ahead, eyebrows raising. Charlotte can tell she still questions it for whatever reason ━ maybe out of Becky believing, in some way, she deserves such a ghastly end ━ but, then again, is pretending that the blonde believing she was thinking such a thing is absurd. As if to portray that there’s no way she was wondering if Charlotte would ever target her, would ever lash out so randomly that she’d punish Becky in the worst of ways. Her hesitant chuckle dies down, Becky pausing before clearing her throat. It’s the final nail in her coffin.

“That’s a, uh… a relief.”

“Is it?”

This time, she doesn’t bother hiding it. Becky knows she’s done for, and that she’s unveiled herself. To prove Charlotte’s point, she makes a _“yikes”_ face, letting out a weird “Ehm…” that earns an actual laugh.

A _full_ laugh.

A laugh she’s hardly heard on this trip, much less after they’ve dealt with such shitty scenarios. Charlotte’s cheeks round and she leans against the seat’s headrest, enjoying the response much more than she probably should. Becky’s heart flutters at the sound, and she can’t stop herself from matching the reaction wholly.

Okay, Charlotte thinks, maybe crude jokes are good. Sometimes, at least. Here, definitely. Maybe that’s how they’ll get through this. Maybe it’s what they’ve needed, all along. Laughter is the best medicine, right?

Their shared comedy dies down after thirty seconds. It leaves the faint remnants of healing behind, and it’s evident. The reddened cheeks, the teary eyes, the smiles, the occasional snickers that trail off as they pave their way further up the trail. They both revel in the taste of it, the foreign sensation of lightheartedness, simultaneously feeling the breeze on their skin as they look out at the road ahead.

Charlotte’s smile falls. Not in a heavy sense like previously, but due to strain. The conflict is still there, and she knows it. With that said, unlike the other times, she knows her smile will be back. She knows this is just the beginning of her span of healing. Becky’s, as well. With the redhead surviving, next to her, Charlotte knows the happiness will return. Through their constant honesty and apologies, through their communication more than anything, she knows her heart will repair to its fullened state. Particularly now with the information that’s essential to moving forward. Now with her trust rebuilding, and Becky’s honesty flowing between them. She can feel it. The sincerity, the sentiment. She even feels Becky giving her heart away on a silver platter. No matter the outcome, or if she’ll be faced with rejection.

Even if Charlotte didn’t necessarily ask, and even if she’s too hurt to willfully cradle it with grateful hands right now, she knows she will. Eventually, she’ll accept it with gratitude, and she’ll take care of it. She’ll bring Becky into her arms, and she’ll keep her safe. If the current scenario of their rosy cheeks and faint smiles is any indication of what’s to come, then she knows she’s bound to accept Becky’s amends. Her heart, too.

Despite anything, that’s all that matters. The amends, the trust, the care, the _love._ With that, they’ll get through it all. This tedious healing process, this rescue mission, this trip on the island from hell, this period of being honest and bridging the gaps they’ve blown through their clasped arms, their growing relationship of _whatever_ kind. They’ll get through everything.

Charlotte’s sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew I'd ever be writing "I'd never run you over" in such a serious light. Mostly serious, at least. 
> 
> I'm curious to know your thoughts on Charlotte's process of thought. This is what I meant when I said not everyone will be able to see along the same wavelength. I think a lot of people (myself, included) would take such great time in forgiving someone, or wanting to. But it's clear that Charlotte is more so at the point of saying "You know what? I'm pissed, yeah, but I'll get over it. I'm tired of pretending I'm done with you." Which isn't to say she's not going to grill Becky, and she's definitely not going to roll over. I meant it when I said she has a backbone. But we really will dig into the idea of "Forgiveness is not imperative to heal" which, nowadays, is thrown around a lot. Then again, we will also see that forgiveness. It's going to be a spiritual journey, to say the least. 
> 
> With that said, Becky isn't going to accept it all quite well. If you think about it, strongly hinted at when she was talking about Paige's parents and calling herself a coward, Becky has never been someone to think she's deserving of anything. This includes love and affection. So, it'll take a bit of Charlotte chipping away at her brash exterior for Becky to understand that she deserves to be cared for, no matter how often or badly she fucks up. Charlotte knows that Becky has never had guidance, nor someone to show her what love looks like -- even with Paige, they were both equally as damaged -- so she'll happily juggle both of their feelings. For now, they'll be on this little "couples" retreat, save the idea of rescuing their captured friends. The universe (that so-often hates Becky) isn't going to let them find Sasha and Bayley until progress is made, put it that way.
> 
> Chapter aside, just a heads-up: I've upped the rating of this fic (if you hadn't noticed) for a future chapter that may not be for younger eyes. If there are any questions/concerns (I sound like a damn pill bottle, huh?), you can send me a message/anon on Tumblr and I'll answer! I don't want to spoil anything here, of course, but I figured I'd let everyone know there will be some detailed, intimate moments in the future. What can I say? I like steam after angst. 
> 
> Thank you for dealing with me again!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy WM weekend, friends!

MON., 7:15 P.M.

* * *

The dirty, taupe-colored Jeep charges up a hill. It growls and gurgles while pushing against the grain, the slope steep and slick with muddy tracks disrupting the wheels’ traction.

Becky scrunches her nose on behalf of its strenuous energy. Mentally, she encourages the vehicle and its progress. Her boot eases further onto the gas pedal, not pushing it to its limits yet wanting to do her best to keep them rolling forward instead of back toward which they came. At the same time, her right hand clutches the gear, both using it as leverage for nothing in particular but also in case she needs to make a quick switch into neutral. Though, honestly, she’d prefer to not manually push the car up the hill. Something tells her that her arms’ lacking strength wouldn’t allow for that. She certainly wouldn’t ask Charlotte to do it, either. Not to mention the ground’s muddy surface probably being too slippery to stand upon.

Their feet vibrate with the puttering beneath them. It makes them wonder how old the Jeep is, how often it’s been used and to what extremity, and if Avery’s island is just too much for it. Granted, this isn’t even that much of an obstacle. In fact, Becky is sure that this is only the tip of the iceberg. She’s sure they’ll encounter something worse, or more difficult to maneuver considering the vehicle’s current exertion. Who knows how it’ll handle ━ _if_ it’ll handle ━ something actually treacherous or workhorse-oriented. A steeper incline, maybe, or thicker mud that’d threaten to cement into the tire’s grooves as it wholly erased their natural traction.

She breathes out, squinting one eye as she harshly presses her foot down for a split second and they jolt forward. Charlotte side-eyes her partner, watching the redhead’s mouth stretch into a _“yikes”_ expression. Like she wasn’t expecting the vehicle to react exactly how she instructed.

Finally, with a tad more effort from wiggling the wheel back and forth, they move forward an inch, and the back-right tire gains more friction than previously. As a result, it retrieves the proper spin they needed to propel forward, up the hill entirely and away from the mud. Becky can almost feel the Jeep relax once it’s atop the packed, dry dirt. As if they hadn’t been stuck on the hillside for two or three minutes, the car pretends it’s perfectly normal and fine. Humming accordingly, its wheels turned left in the direction they’re next heading.

Once they’re stalled three feet from the slope, the pair of women notice they’re now on a flattened plateau high above miles upon miles of vegetation. Additionally, they’re perched on the edge of a cliff and destined to make a broad u-turn, then around another curve that disappears behind the tree line. A new cluster of jungle awaits. For now, they’re sided by a thick section of bushy trees, then only open air in front of them. Floating above nothing but widespread land hundreds of feet below. Becky stalls the car by turning the key just slightly, and she takes a breather.

“That took longer than expected,” she comments, leaning her head back.

“‘Least we made it,” the agreement is dull but positive, Charlotte’s eyebrows raising.

Silence follows. A woodpecker knocks against a solid trunk. Insects buzz in multiple areas, some louder than others. Birds chirp in the distance, more frequently than they’ve been. It all causes a tropical sound to echo through the nearby trees, bouncing off the bark, and both women turn to the source with a set of mirrored, diluted smiles. A layer of intrigue, and secondhand pride. They can tell that the birds are in flocks. Families, more like. This is their home. Where they’re happy, and where they’re cozy. Where they’re enjoying themselves with each other, communicating about whatever-it-is or simply singing at the evening’s orange sun.

To support their theory, four, baby birds hop out from beneath a bush covered in red flowers. They bounce around along the grass, one of them nudging at the others while moving around the road’s curve. Becky and Charlotte share a giggle at the sight, enjoying the little things before their mutual joy causes them to turn to each other. Through the brief eye contact, their shyness gets the best of them. The historian doesn’t let it derail their progress too much, however.

“Come on,” her car door is flung open, sideways nodding toward the gorgeous view.

Becky hesitates. Charlotte understands why, tilting her head to the side and giving her a half-smile that convinces the Irish woman of what she can’t necessarily say.

“Let’s enjoy it while we can,” she settles on the request. “Just for a minute, okay?”

More apprehension comes, eventually ended by Becky nodding and turning the car off. Admittedly, despite only being in the car for a few minutes following their elevator adventure, she could use something to clear her mind. The water wheel was nice, sure. Perfectly abnormal in a way that made her remember why she loves doing this. At the same time, with the air turning cooler and the nighttime creeping up on them, her body is starting to feel sluggish. Her mind, as well. She can sense Charlotte’s mutual exhaustion, too. Whether it’s mental, emotional, physical, or all three. For that, she’ll push away her guilt regarding Sasha and Bayley’s whereabouts for a minute or two. Just enough to clear her mind, and get back on track. They wouldn’t want her to over-exert herself. Even if it’s her fault that they’ve been taken away. They’d want her to keep perspective. To listen to Charlotte, more importantly.

Becky chews her inner cheek and opens the driver’s side door with a pop. It’s shut behind her, the treasure hunter rounding the car’s hood and wandering over to where Charlotte stands. Where she overlooks the beautiful, portrait-esque view that most people would use as a screensaver on their office computer.

It looks unreal. The sky consisting of a faint blue that gradually turns to pink and purple in the far distance. The clouds that are growing thicker, more dense, somewhat giving Becky a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach. They’re rain clouds. Lower to the ground and ready to unleash whatever they’re harboring within their bellies. Becky isn’t sure if that’ll be here, or somewhere off the island, but she knows they’re getting ready to grant some place with their precipitation.

Still, she tries her best to ignore it. Her eyes instead roam the grounds miles below them, expanding far and wide with infinite hues of greens and yellows until they reach the shore and the bay. Until it stretches out into blue ocean that eventually meets the sky. From what she can see from this distance and height, the waves move accordingly. Crashing into the rocks with large splashes floating upward. Creating froth in their wake. The wind moves the trees below, soon reaching the cliff where they stand, shaking the leaves nearby with the same, soft rattle. Each time, a cluster of birds reacts with cuckoos and Becky hears them running along branches. Small pitter-patters breaking through the breeze’s results before it fades out and everything is still again.

The chill tickles her skin whenever it arrives, despite the sun’s warmth. It reminds her of her damp and sweaty skin. A result of running above the waterfall in order to reach Charlotte. In order to save the blonde from being attacked, only to find that the historian didn’t need rescuing. The reminder makes her snicker, shaking her head and bowing it where she stands.

Charlotte eyes her without turning her head much. Truthfully, she’s just happy to hear the sound when Becky has otherwise been so quiet, so reserved and stuck in her own head. No matter what the treasure hunter believes, no one deserves to feel so blue all the time. Or most of the time, even.

Becky’s smile has always been the most prominent thing ingrained into Charlotte’s memory, no matter how much time passed between them seeing each other. Sometimes, it’d bother her. It would cause her heart to ache, to long for the woman she hadn’t felt near her for years. It would piss her off, too. There she was, harping on someone who probably hadn’t thought about her worth a damn. If Becky had cared, she wouldn’t have left so willy-nilly. She would’ve reached out, or she would’ve at least left a note like she did for Paige’s parents. Charlotte shakes her head, internally lecturing herself. That was a low blow.

Even if she’s currently hurt, she doesn’t warrant an excuse to be so cold. Even in her thoughts, she doesn’t have the right to be insensitive. Again: they’re both human. Opposing that, Becky’s mishaps leading up to her painful loss of her best friend and what happened after had no reason to affect what they’d gone through on their first venture. Their experience happened years before. Before the fallout of Paige’s passing, the redhead had time to call, to reach out, to make up for what she’d done. To _apologize._ Of course, no avail. She made the choice of keeping quiet.

The question now is: can Charlotte find the strength to listen to her heart and spill what’s on her mind? Is she _willing_ to, moreover? After all, Becky has been pushing herself to be honest, so doesn’t Charlotte owe her the same? Even if hurts both of them, in the process? Shouldn’t she confront what’s weighing on her chest so they can _finally_ make some sort of move, or discuss where they go from here?

She sighs through her nostrils. It’s a short process, however. One that Becky interrupts, her voice coming from behind Charlotte.

“Bayley would love this place.”

At the sound of her smiling in sheer adoration, the historian turns around to see Becky bent down near a bed of flowers. The first of many. Rows upon rows of oranges and yellows, or a blend of the two. All lining the road where they’ll be driving to head around another curve. It’s magnificent, Charlotte decides, and she walks over with a sad smile of her own. She can tell Becky’s tone is full of remorse, full of regret and everything terrible. All covered by a plastic grin. A glass one, more like. Able to shatter at any given second, if Becky just allowed it to.

“She would,” Charlotte agrees, standing beside her. “Why don’t you pick some to give to her?”

The suggestion earns a short round of contemplation. At first, Becky doesn’t react much. She simply remains crouched down beside the flowers, knees bent with her elbows resting on her thighs. Charlotte wonders if she’s thinking about it, or if the other woman didn’t hear her at all. She doesn’t disturb whatever thought is stuck in her mind. She remains silent, and, in the end, Becky shakes her head slowly.

“I’d rather save her and Sash so she can pick some, herself,” her throat grows sore as she stands up, steadying herself above the flowerbeds.

Before Charlotte can give her any type of sympathetic expression, Becky flashes her a curt, tight-lipped smile before brushing by her shoulder. The Irish woman rubs the back of her neck as she moves back to the Jeep, opening the door as Charlotte rounds the other side to do the same. They get settled side by side, the vehicle faintly rocking as they shift and get comfortable. Once her fingers turn the key in the ignition, the engine’s hum lights up again, and they’re ready to follow the road forward. Away from the serenity, away from the chirping birds and the beautiful flowers. Away from their distractions, and back en route to find their friends.

Unlike the significance of Becky’s quietness, Charlotte doesn’t want to let the conversation die. She’s spent too long staying silent and reverting to her reserved ways. So, instead, she opts to be the one who keeps their conversations flowing. This time, it’s more lighthearted. More into Becky’s realm, and what she loves.

“I was thinking…” the historian turns to her partner. “All this architecture, the statues, the housing...” the list drags on before there’s a pause, drumming up to her ultimate question. “How do we know Avery didn’t run out of money by the time he finished building this so-called paradise?”

“I’ve been thinking the same,” with a sigh, Becky’s admission is flatly spoken. “I s’pose we _don’t_ know,” she looks at Charlotte, a tiny smile on her face.

She returns to her former state, staring ahead at the road. Although, her focus doesn’t resurface just yet. Charlotte hears a laugh force its way out of Becky’s throat, the redhead’s mouth curving into a dumbfounded, dreadful smile that’s an abundance of different emotions.

“Now, _that’d_ be some shit luck.”

The blonde’s body moves when she shares in the amusement, even if it’s based off of their potential misfortune. Actually, her entertainment is predominantly secondhand. A result of the sound of Becky’s laugh. A result of how her sparkling teeth show, despite the circumstances. Charlotte watches the expression fade off, but feels her own cheeks staying fullened by her own enjoyment. They feel warm, as well. She knows she’s blushing.

It’s not like she can help it, realistically. This type of banter is what she’s been waiting on for the extent of this trip. With that said, it’s no secret that her own caution was the formidable obstacle that kept them from sharing in it. She’s been waiting for years, quite frankly. Since their first trip. It’s the same chit-chat they’d exchanged during those few nights, before they fell asleep. Thinking back, the title of “strangers” never applied to them. Although her motives were mainly derived from wanting something to report ━ something no one else ever had before ━ she’d adjust to Becky’s personality rather quickly. _Instantly,_ she’d argue. It was never a case of feeling awkward, or foreign. Their conversations came smoothly, naturally, and nothing felt odd. They even slept next to each other without hesitance, or second-guessing it. Charlotte’s missed it. She’ll continue to remember how much she’s missed it, too.

Those years away were some of the longest she’d endured, if you were to ask. Admittedly, they’ve stained her more than most other goodbyes, even if there wasn’t one spoken between them. In retrospect, maybe that’s why it stung so much. With no goodbye, there’s no closure. There are unanswered questions in every nook and cranny of her mind. Every crack of it, and every cleft. She didn’t have a goddamn clue of where Becky wandered off to, or what happened. Why the Irish woman deserted her on a strange dock in a town she had no knowledge about. Sure, they’d gone through something traumatic together. Sure, she’d given Becky a severe case of broken eyes because, _shit,_ was she furious. That didn’t mean, for one second, that she was finished. If there’s something the two of them share, it’s fierce determination. Charlotte wanted to conquer the trail as much as Becky did, regardless of any foes tracking them.

Above anything, all she wanted was to protect Becky as much as she knows the treasure hunter did for her. That’s what it comes down to, in the end. That’s _always_ what it comes down to.

A large breath fills and exits Charlotte’s lungs. Her face is unreadable when Becky hears it, turning to her with a tiny pout. Blue-green eyes stare ahead, watching the curve of the road as they follow the never-ending path. Those eyes are empty. Lacking the negative aspect of the word, that is. They’re simply… _there._ Waiting to have her attention stolen by something else. Becky nods, more so to herself.

“Thank you,” the redhead blurts out before she can bite her tongue, “...by the way.”

It piques Charlotte’s curiosity.

“For making me soak in the view, just now. I sometimes forget to pace myself,” it lowers into a mutter, but her sincerity remains.

She can’t respond. The gratitude is unnecessary, Charlotte thinks. It’s adorable, but unnecessary. Something else is hidden within, though. She can tell that Becky wants to say more, or that it’s not what she intended to come out with. There’s something deeper. Something that won’t be heard, or something that the hunter has no idea how to word. That’s okay.

“You know, the book I found in the pub…” Charlotte changes the subject, remembering she hadn’t told Becky, “it’s filled with thoughts on the rebellion. I assume the author was on the lesser side of things. His handwriting was pretty frantic,” her eyebrows raise for a second. “But it’s… _powerful._ Just knowing his mindset before it all went down.”

Internally, Becky’s heart flutters at Charlotte’s enthusiasm in respect to history and everything it holds. Another thing she’s always admired about the historian. One of the infinite aspects. A tiny smile curves her mouth before she decides to contribute to the topic.

“I’d imagine,” her hand shifts on the wheel, driving casually with the tips of her fingers. “Don’t think rebelling against your makeshift, pirate government would be somethin’ taken lightly. Would’ve been killed one way or another.”

Her partner’s lips purse, head nodding.

“Motivation’s a powerful thing.”

The statement earns a patch of silence from Becky. She can’t tell if Charlotte meant something underlying or not. Either way, it strikes a chord within the redhead, and her throat grows sore. Her fingers tingle against the wheel’s leather, eventually muttering a response.

“I agree.”

In the distance, they hear rushing water. At first, it’s only trickling, like a stream. A slow movement that signifies the lesser depth of the creek they’re approaching. Until the trickling turns to heavy crashes of water against rocks, and the noise only grows until they exit the stretch of jungle and enter a clearing with a river that cuts their path in half. Closer to the water is mud instead of dirt, likely a result of yesterday’s storm heightening the river’s flow before it sunk into the ground. Becky grimaces at the sight. More specifically, she grimaces at the knowledge that they’ll have to trudge through it. She almost pats the Jeep in comfort to the inanimate object.

The wheels proceed to roll until they’re at the top of the downward slope toward the river. They stall at its peak, and Becky notes their surroundings. What they can use to get across, more like. Technically speaking, the river isn’t deep, however the smaller rocks beneath are coated with moss and slippery gunk that Becky has no idea what it is. Truthfully, she doesn’t want to know. What catches her eye more than those compact pebbles are the greyish slabs of rock only speckled with mist from the river’s water. They’re each approximately the size of a tractor tire, perhaps wider, and there’s five of them. Practically in a line, mimicking a natural road for them to drive over. For them to gain traction over, and push through the river until they’re driving onto the opposite bank.

From there, they’ll round a curve of trees, drive through another region of forest, and follow the path until ━ Becky presumes ━ they face the buckled, stone bridge up ahead. Go figure: it’s broken in half, the first fragment being a good ten feet above the other. They’ll have to use it as a ramp, drive through the air, and hope for the best as they land on the second part. Charlotte won’t be a happy camper. Becky can already tell, judging by the way she turns to the blonde whose eyes are prematurely fixated on the structure. The historian doesn’t notice she’s being looked at, however, and it works to Becky’s advantage. She can change the subject in pretend that she hadn’t spotted it.

“Looks like we’ll need plenty of that motivation to get through this, too,” the words are labored from her throat, as if they’re stuck within her windpipe until forced out.

Her hand reaches for the gear, putting the Jeep back into drive. They feel a subtle clunk beneath their feet, and suddenly the vehicle is ready to go. Ready to take them through the course of active rapids and waves that seem pretty daunting.

“Alrighty,” Becky purses her lips, nose scrunching. “Hang on,” she instructs.

Charlotte does as told just as the car begins to approach the river at a gradually increasing rate. The redhead’s hands grip the wheel firmly, and her face grows daring as she takes the river head-on. Through the corner of her eye, Charlotte watches how Becky finds satisfaction in the way they hit the water. The way mist shoots upward when their front tires smash into the liquid, nearly getting stuck in a muddy hole beneath the surface. She watches how the Irish woman keeps completely calm despite the current beginning to swerve the vehicle while her own eyes widen. Her nails grip onto the side of the car, brushing drops of water from her cheeks as they hit them in waves. She senses her hair growing damp, as well, the ends completely wet and now a dirty blonde from the filthy water.

They’re a third of the way through the river when they use the first, flattened stone as a launching pad. The wheels spin upon its surface one by one, a slipping noise filling the air as they bump forward. Then again, and again, and again. It gets easier to handle as they push through, almost out of the water when the Jeep’s wheels begin to stick into the mud on the riverbank. Threatening to keep them there, and threatening to let the water take them with due time.

“Come on,” Becky looks over the door’s edge, speaking to the front-left wheel. “You can do it. Come on…”

In any other case, Charlotte would snicker at how she coaxes the object. How cute she sounds while doing so, or how corny it is to do so, in the first place. Here, the blonde’s head just turns this way and that, especially when a bigger rush of water is heading in their direction from the river’s mouth. Her eyes widen again before slamming shut in defense, turning her cheek the other way and bracing herself for the giant splash that’s bound to drench them.

Thankfully, it never does. At the very last second, their car grabs ahold of a miniature stone and pushes forward with a whizzing sound that makes Charlotte wonder if the engine is going to burst. Or if a tire will. Neither do, much to the women’s satisfaction, and they push up the bank until they’re on a flattened area of dry dirt.

 _“Phew,_ made it,” Becky relaxes against the seat. “Gotta admit, I wasn’t feelin’ too good toward the end there.”

Charlotte raises her eyebrows in agreement. Nearby, Becky wipes her wet hands on the thighs of her camo pants, trying to rid herself of dirt particles and droplets of water. She does the same to her face, careful of her damaged cheek before wringing out the tips of her red hair. A face is made while doing so, bringing a few strands into her line of sight as she squints at the dampness. The entire time, Charlotte observes her, otherwise sitting silently as she’d done the same prior. Becky continues to clean herself, or at least dry herself off in the most minute way. When her attention is turned downward, she moves aside her worse-for-wear tactical vest in order to view her grey v-neck, being at least eighty percent wet with darker and lighter stains among the fabric. Becky pouts at it, face twisted in discontent.

The historian can’t help but breathe out a tiny giggle. It’s faint enough to brush off as a simple exhale, especially when she tucks her lower lip between her teeth and looks toward where they’re heading: that broken bridge.

Her nerves only amplify as the car begins to move again, driving them toward the toppling landmark. Adding onto that, the quiet between them doesn’t help. It allows Charlotte room to panic, to feel unnerved and shaken by what they’re approaching, and how Becky will handle it. Her mind screams for there to be another way. Another way that doesn’t include using the intact portion of the bridge as a ramp to fly the car and themselves into the air then down onto the second half that may or may not be as sturdy. As far as obstacles go, this is bound to be the scariest hurdle. The scariest _planned_ one, at least. It’s bound to be the biggest gamble they’ve taken. She hasn’t even gotten a slight look at the supporting, stone pillars beneath the bridge as they hold it up, but she’s sure they weren’t ever built to take the impact of a four-wheeled vehicle falling ten or more feet down onto its cobblestone surface. Her stomach fizzes, Charlotte’s breath halting.

The structure comes into view through the thinning trees. Its white color, prominent against the browns and greys of the riverbed and surrounding stones, and the greens of the grassy hill nearby. Illuminated by the orange sun, even when it gets into Charlotte’s eyes as they begin turning more toward its mouth. They’re about a hundred yards away now, gaining speed. Charlotte knows, for certain, that Becky doesn’t want to stop their momentum. She knows she’s going to take the leap. The gamble. No matter what the risks may be. And it’s not that Charlotte’s angry about it, but more so disturbed. The fact that they could lose time if she potentially suggested they take another route. The fact that they could miss out on crossing paths with Sasha and Bayley solely because of something she’s queasy about. New Devon isn’t too far from here. They’re almost there. Within an hour or so, they’ll be there.

Fifty yards away from the bridge now.

Charlotte gulps.

Forty-five.

“God, I can’t watch this,” she blocks her eyes.

Becky doesn’t think twice, or question Charlotte. Her foot lifts from the pedal, gently pressing onto the brake as the car begins to slow. The feeling of lost inertia gets Charlotte’s attention, also soothing her worries as it starts to putter along the ground until they’re fully stopped. Her hands are removed from her gaze, Charlotte turning to Becky in full-fledged confusion. If Becky didn’t know it was bafflement, she’d wonder if the historian is pissed at her again. There’s a giant frown on her face, eyebrows knitted together so much that she wonders if the blonde’s face will be permanently creased. Her shoulders are stiffened, as well, elbows still bent with her hands still cupped.

Becky is staring ahead, however, wrists resting at the top of the steering wheel as she partly slumps forward.

“We can walk from here, if you’d like,” the decision comes soon, crimson hair dangling in front of the wheel as Becky turns to her with a tilted head.

Her voice isn’t annoyed in the least bit. It’s truly genuine, and a shade concerned. In fact, it’s so soft that Charlotte is caught off-guard, almost as much as she was when Becky confessed that she grew up as an orphan. Similar to in that instance, the historian’s brain checks out, and only one reaction comes to mind.

“What?”

“This is going to make you uncomfortable,” Becky gestures at the bridge ahead, palms still against the wheel’s peak. “I’m okay with walking.”

Charlotte’s lips part, neck not moving while her eyes drift off to the obstacle. Afterwards, they return to Becky, and her posture seems to deflate. In actuality, in Charlotte’s mind, such a wave of relief washes over her that the nerves in her body simply untangle and entirely diminish. With the way brown eyes trace her features, like they’re making sure Charlotte is okay time and time again, the blonde relaxes where she sits. When she speaks again, her voice proves how tiny she feels. How secured she’s become, just by Becky’s need for her input. Her consent, moreover.

“You’d really do that?”

“I owe you a lot more than consideration, Charlie. But I figure this is a start,” in the middle of her response ━ coming automatically, like she’d been thinking about it before Charlotte even spoke a word ━ the treasure hunter begins to unbuckle.

Charlotte notes her movements, and her decisiveness. Her willingness to push away the fact that they could potentially be wasting time just for the sole purpose of keeping the historian’s anxieties at bay. After everything, after Becky’s determination and obsession with finding the fastest route just to get the job done… it’s enlightening in terms of how the redhead has grown. On the other hand, maybe Charlotte just hasn’t given her the chance to prove herself in that light. Maybe Becky has been grown, throughout this trip, but she’s been pretending that the Irish woman is still her old, selfish persona. She’d swished the thought around within her mind earlier, knowing that’s probably the case, but to see Becky’s consideration put on display is definitely something that reminds Charlotte of how stiff she’s been toward the woman.

Not to mention the use of her old nickname, being the cherry on top. Charlotte breathes out, lifting her eyes to see Becky reaching to open the car door.

“No,” the quick word stops Becky’s motions, the redhead turning around. “I want to… do it,” Charlotte says, blinking hard and shaking her head at the implication. “The jump,” she reiterates.

“Are you sure?” her partner digs for a truer answer. “I meant it when I said I’m perfectly fine—”

“Do it.”

The two words are serious, and unchanging. They don’t keep Becky from staring into ocean eyes for another round of seconds, waiting for her to blink away her fragile mask of temporary bravado. Charlotte remains stone-faced and ready to clear the obstacle, jaw tightened as Becky’s focus slowly narrows. Prying at the historian’s resolve until she cracks. She never does, in the end. It earns a forming nod from the Irish woman, then a relenting smile as her fingers reach for the key until it’s twisted again. The engine starts back up, and Becky re-buckles.

“Well, okay, then,” an uppity tone fills the gaping silence. “If the Queen says so.”

Charlotte’s smile is shaky, itching to collapse like the bridge possibly could. She grips her seat belt as the car’s speed grows. Desperate fingers curl around the grey material, and she pushes her body into the seat as much as she can. Anything to keep her secure in the vehicle once they’re faced by the jump.

In the driver’s seat, Becky looks devilish and daring. Her thirst for the extremes floats to the forefront of her personality, licking her damaged lips while smiling and ducking her head lower as if she’s challenging the upcoming bridge. Simultaneously, her hands grip the wheel accordingly, and she follows the dirt road’s turn. Now, straight ahead is the stone’s threshold, sided by two, statue-included pillars. Clearly Avery’s signature, if the landmark’s craftsmanship wasn’t enough of an implication.

The gas pedal is pressed down further, and Charlotte feels their speed picking up more and more. Unlike before, she keeps her eyes open. Unlike before, this time, Charlotte wants to witness it. She wants to feel the thrill, the way her heart leaps into her throat and the air leaves her lungs. She wants to know what the big deal is, and what keeps Becky scouring for more of that adrenaline.

Her mouth opens with short breaths tumbling from her lips, vision blurring as the speeding Jeep hits the bump of the pavement, vibrating against its rocky texture sided by decorative, stone walls. They’re speeding forward at a rate of roughly sixty miles per hour, Becky’s grip locked on the wheel and keeping their path straight. Just ahead is the end, being brittle and cracked with a generously sized gap dividing the two bridge ends, along with that ten or plus feet of drop between the two. Charlotte tries to calculate how it’ll end, or where they’ll drop onto. If the tires will be able to take that pressure without bursting, too. It’s no secret they’ve had trouble with previous obstacles.

But it’s too late now.

Because, after five more seconds, Becky gives the car more gas as they’re launched in a dropping arc over the bridge’s crack. Charlotte feels her body taking to gravity within the heavy vehicle, the whole ordeal happening in slow motion as they fly through the air and lazily drop onto the latter half of the structure. With a crack, with the second portion of bridge sloping backwards once a single pillar buckles under the pressure, they succeed without casualty. Except for Charlotte’s thumping heart, that is. By now, however, she’s smiling so big at the idea of clearing the bridge’s threat that she doesn’t mind how rapidly the blood courses through her veins.

“Holy crap,” Charlotte turns around to look at the stonework as they leave it behind, amazed. “We made it,” her mind begins to catch up to the event, a laugh breaking through her throat’s tightness.

Becky keeps her hands on the wheel, lessening their speed as they take another curve with smoothness. She manages to look at Charlotte, grinning at how impressed the historian appears with her mouth hung open in a large grin.

“You sound surprised.”

At first, Charlotte’s enthusiasm remains. It isn’t until she flops back into her seat, staring straight ahead, that her energy begins to simmer. By then, a smirk takes her grin’s place.

“A little,” the admission is smug, toying with the woman next to her. “You have a real knack for breaking things.”

Becky cackles.

“Story of my life.”

It gets a mutual laugh, Charlotte shaking her head with her cheeks feeling stiff from smiling so hard. The first in a long time, she thinks. Nevertheless, she revels in the sensation of so much happiness and an overkill of feelings making her body tingle. Even if it’s partly due to exhaustion, or mental strain, it’s something to depend on. Something to love, and pay attention to. Charlotte knew her smile would return, and she’s happy as hell that it did. No matter the circumstances, or what’s lead them here.

A large sigh flees her lungs, leaning her head back against the seat’s fabric. She stares at the tree tops, keeping the car canopied away from the sun’s rays. Flickers of light still seep through, and every now and again she sees birds flying overhead. They’re backed by the large clouds, darkening with every passing minute. She licks her lips, watching the scenery with a sudden drainage of energy. Her collapsing adrenaline, haunting her limbs as she’s reminded of their soreness. With a small grimace, she straightens her neck again to look ahead, only to see that they’re approaching an elevator.

Except this one is nothing like the last. Quite frankly, it actually resembles a modern-day elevator, leading twice as high as the last as it towers approximately a hundred feet into the sky. It’s built of criss-crossing, wooden beams, all sturdy and a nice brown color. Virtually untouched by Earth’s elements throughout the years. At its base is a compact, stone ramp leading into another, wooden box. Inside, as they drive closer, Charlotte notes the metal lever that undoubtedly would take them upwards if pulled. Nearby, she turns to see a water wheel. A twin of the former elevator’s, strong as ever and pouring water from compartment to compartment. Ultimately, at the top of the tower, its box opens up to another cliff where they’ll be driving into New Devon. Just like that.

They’ve come so far, Charlotte thinks. Here they are, on the cusp of finding yet another lost city. Well, actually, it can’t be lost if it never, technically existed to anyone but Avery and his companions. The historian’s lips seal in good impression mixed with intrigue. _History,_ she muses.

“I’ll raise the elevator door while you drive the car in,” Becky slips out of the seat, Charlotte agreeing and hopping over the center console.

She taps her fingers against the wheel while watching her partner jog across a muddy clearing. She watches how in-tune she appears, and how… “in her element” she seems. Like she’s done this a time or two. Or for a living. Imagine that, Charlotte smirks to herself. She bows her head and shakes it partly, wondering when she became so involved in the woman who stretches her arms and legs out in preparation for the strenuous activity. A dorky move, she internally comments. Cute, but dorky.

“Focus,” Charlotte speaks to herself.

Her tongue rolls behind her teeth, trying to remind herself that they still have things to discuss before anything. Before she wholly accepts Becky’s amends, or her strives to make things right. Okay, so she can enjoy the comfort in knowing that the Irish woman is trying her hardest to be the best version of herself, and she can enjoy the laughter and banter they share, but there’s still a lot to talk about. Forgiveness can come before then, and she knows that. It can come later, too. Forgiveness isn’t necessary to move forward. It’s not necessary to heal. At the same time, within a relationship of any kind, forgiveness is vital to be genuine, and complete. Baby steps, Charlotte reminds herself. They have time. Becky isn’t going anywhere. Her heart relaxes at the idea. They have time, she repeats.

“Ready when you are,” Becky has her fingers hooked beneath the door’s underside, prepared for Charlotte to approach.

The car creeps toward the ramp, Charlotte giving it a tad more throttle to get over the hump and drive beneath the door raised by Becky’s overstretched arms. The redhead grits her teeth in the process, then moves beneath the slab of wood to encase them both ━ and the vehicle ━ inside the box. She breathes out with the act of lowering the door, afterwards clapping her hands free of wooden splinters. Charlotte exits the car, wanting to stand by the elevator’s frontside to scope out the inevitably beautiful view. Becky, in the corner of the platform, pulls the lever. With a clunk, their ascent begins.

It’s slow but steady, even with the elevator rattling against the track. It’s not too bad, they think. Considering the structure’s age, it could certainly be worse. Both of them stand close to the elevator’s front, looking between the criss-crossed, wooden planks that keep them separated from the open air. Between the cracks, the constant breeze filters through, their hair brushing against their skin. Within mere seconds, they’re passing the tree line and overlooking the river from which they departed, in addition to the broken bridge that Charlotte’s smile returns at. It’s a gorgeous panorama, never ceasing to amaze them. The sun’s orange glow makes it thirty times more magnificent, creating a yellow tint against each tree’s top. Shimmering against the ocean in the distance until the sun disappears behind a large cloud. One that expands so widely that they’re not sure they’ll see the light once more today. It’s bittersweet, and reminds them of the day’s events.

Becky ducks her head, but she’s not allowed to delve too far into her guilt when Charlotte interrupts.

“Some view,” her eyes sparkle with the comment, features calm and wistful.

The redhead turns to her, initially hesitating while outlining her profile. She then smiles lightly, not tearing her eyes away.

“Yeah, it is.”

Charlotte swallows hard. She detects the compliment, basking in it for a second before Becky’s gaze burns further into her temple. Her kind expression turns contemplative, and her mouth opens and closes. Without looking, the other woman can tell she wants to say something. Perhaps deeper, or more technical. Something she’s been thinking about. Soon, her theory is proven.

“What changed?”

Her eyes narrow at the random inquisition. Nothing else to go on but the question, itself.

“Hm?” Charlotte looks at her, tilting her head to the side.

Becky wets her lips, then faces away. Her posture seems afraid of the answer. Nervous, at least. Her eyebrows raise for a split second, then return to normal as she stares out at the scenery.

“You said you almost didn’t save me this time,” the Irish woman explains, turning to Charlotte again. “What changed your mind?” it’s asked with the shrug of her left shoulder, her demeanor innocent and childlike.

Again: nervous.

Despite her mild dismay or saddened curiosity, despite the evidence that Becky has clearly been thinking about the confession for a while… Charlotte doesn’t have a true answer. Or does she? She could always chalk it up to the universe working in strange ways, even if some of those ways are hellish. Even if she didn’t want to turn back, or stumble upon Becky dropping down the side of a cliff. Was it fate? Does Charlotte even _believe_ in fate? Truth be told, she’s not sure. She’s not sure what superstitions she believes in, or if she does at all. She’s not sure why or how she found her way back to Becky, or if she would’ve tried to, anyway. Thinking back, and looking at the bigger picture, the blonde’s otherwise positive that her heart wouldn’t allow her to outright vacate the island without trying to help Becky. Without trying to help Sasha, or Bayley. Admittedly, they all mean too much to her. Especially the woman staring at her with fragile, wondering eyes.

In the end, Charlotte settles on nudging Becky’s mind into a better place. She can do that much.

“I couldn’t leave you behind when you were so-clearly in over your head.”

An automatic chuckle floats between them, the historian smiling at the sound while licking her lips in thought.

Becky’s short spurt of humor fades, whispering, “Yeah, there’s that.”

Then, against her better judgment, and against her own wishes because, God, she doesn’t want to mean it… Charlotte reminds them both of the mission’s grounds.

“And…” her voice lowers, caught in her throat, “we made a deal. I help you here, then... that’s it.”

She can’t even look at Becky when she says it. Either way, the entity of rejection stands between them and digs its claws into their skin. The words burn Charlotte’s tongue. Sincerely, she’s not even sure why she bothered reminding them of the elephant in the room. Maybe to give them a piece of reality, or a slap in the face that breaks them out of this pink-filtered trance. After they leave the island, they’ll be free to separate. To go on their individual paths. To split from each other and never look back.

Charlotte feels sick at the idea, recoiling into herself slightly. It doesn’t help when Becky nods sadly, her next words practically mouthed.

“Yeah… that’s it.”

Okay, so it hurt more than Charlotte imagined. Fuck.

The elevator’s stop bounces them where they stand, and Becky wastes no time being stuck in a box that’s suffocating both of them no matter how many cracks send fresh air wafting through. Instead, she saunters over to the backdoor and pushes it upwards, this time the slab of wood staying in place once it’s locked by an iron clasp. Her chin tilts up to observe the security of it, eventually sealing her lips shut and twisting her body to see Charlotte already in the passenger’s seat.

Becky hesitates. The sight of Charlotte turned away from her, forcibly so, makes her want to mention it, or say they’re not moving until they talk things over. It’s as if Charlotte’s recent proclamation derailed their progress in the blink of an eye. It’s as if it pulled the veil from their view and proved that they’re only paving over what they’re truly dealing with instead of healing it from the inside out ━ A.K.A. what they _should_ be doing.

Bottom line: it’s all or nothing on this island. Once they’re off it, riding back home to the mainland, they’ll have the option to stick together or depart. Given how things are still rocky between them, how Becky _knows_ she still has a lot to apologize for… she’s sure Charlotte will choose the second. No one wants to stick around and cater to someone who can’t get their act together for the sole reason of having to admit their faults. And, if Becky can’t admit hers, then this very well will _most definitely_ be the last adventure they go on together.

Her throat bobs with nerves and a glum pulse in her sternum, her heart physically aching in her chest. With a reserved, compact body language, she walks to the driver’s side and slides into the seat, closing the door behind her. Charlotte doesn’t look at the other woman, lost in her own head. Even with the buzzing of the engine starting once more, the historian ignores it. The turning of the wheels, their departure of the elevator’s platform, the few feet passed into fresh territory now laid out by a cobblestone road instead of a dirt path, the thinning jungle ahead. She ignores it all, leaning her head to the side so her partner can’t see the saddened look on her face.

The saddened look that only lessens for one thing and one thing only. The one thing that’s caused a smile to break out across her mouth in the worst of times, even when she hasn’t wanted it to. Likewise, here, she doesn’t want it to. She wants to stay upset, stay bothered by her own words and their insinuations. She wants to stop being so easily swayed. Still, she can’t help it, and the corners of her mouth twitch into a small grin within an instant of that one thing gracing her ears ━ albeit quietly:

Becky’s voice.

“New Devon, here we come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress, eh?
> 
> As you can see, Charlotte's mind is getting a little less cluttered. There's still a lot to talk about, which they'll do within the next two chapters (even afterwards, but mostly the upcoming two), but at least now they're willing and close to working on it. It's going to take some nudging against Becky's resolve before Charlotte gets through to her, as Becky has never known how to deal with her feelings and handle them in an adult way. However, Becky will learn to let Charlotte in. We've already seen a lot of it. And we saw here how she wants to factor Charlotte's opinions into decisions now. She knows it's a joint adventure. It's not just her having three people tag along. Side note: Methinks Charlotte kind of... sort of... missed this type of thrill... or at least will miss it once she stops. Hm...
> 
> We get back to the eventfulness known as Uncharted next chapter and the one after, then I'll be breaking again. Things are starting to heat up and gain a lot of friction, in more ways than one.
> 
> I look forward to seeing you back, hopefully! Enjoy WM, if you're watching!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed WM (if ya watched)!
> 
> I'm sorry in advance for any spelling mistakes in this dinosaur of a chapter. I always revise twice but when chapters get super lengthy, I oftentimes miss things. 
> 
> Enjoy some necessary talking between these two.

MON., 7:52 P.M.

* * *

Turns out, that wonky elevator brought them somewhere other than simply upwards through the air and onto a higher layer of the island. Other than simply closer to New Devon, or their ultimate destination.

Broadly speaking, it brought them to somewhere calmer. Somewhere even more beautiful. Somewhere they’d love to visit time and time again, whether it’s in the near future or in a handful of years. The grass has morphed into a texture less prickly, less patchy, while becoming softer. If you were to run your palm along its tips, it’d feel lush, as if you were petting a fleece blanket laid out atop an expensive bed. Flowers of every color complete the modest hillsides, mimicking ocean waves as they move up and down and obstruct the women’s vision when the now-cobblestone road rounds a curve behind them. Waterfalls cascade downwards in the distance, misting over the edge of a higher cliff that overlooks the plains, then trickling downwards beyond the current level’s drop in a faint rainbow. Its water portrays a blueish and whitish glow, muting the scarce, deep-green trees that pattern the small stretch of valley like they’re driving through an apple grove. And, with their travels merely beginning through New Devon’s surrounding scenery, the birds have gone from occasionally chirping to announcing their sun-setting tunes. Communicating with the breeze, as well.

The pair of women take in each aspect one by one. The scents, the sounds, the sights. Everything hitting their senses gradually, as they’re afraid they’ll miss a second of it. An ounce of it, even. Charlotte runs a hand through her hair, letting it fall back into place and then wild itself with the wind. It’s the first time she’s felt as though this is a casual drive, as if they could potentially stop and lay down a quilt, just to hold an evening picnic on a hillside. Behind the wheel, Becky daydreams about the same while gingerly steering the vehicle with her right hand, leaning her other elbow on the Jeep’s door. Her left hand is brought to her mouth, rubbing her pointer finger and middle finger across the delicate skin of her healing lips.

It’s all mesmerizing, the scenery is. Within the heart of the mountainsides, it’s all immaculate and breathtaking. The purples in the distance, created by the mountains’ outlines. The dark blues of the overcasting clouds. The chill they bring in the form of shadows, particularly when the wind shakes the very few trees lining the cobblestone road. In spite of the weather’s subtle darkness, any color imaginable is captured along the upcoming miles of their route. No matter where you look, you’ll find something of a different shade, of a different hue or tone. Various reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, purples, _anything._ Browns, blacks, whites, greys. It’s all tangible, too. Not just pictured, or sketched, or imagined. It’s real, right in front of them, beside them, behind them. Surrounding them, _engulfing_ them. Truly, if they didn’t know any better, they’d assume they’re living in a dream. Sleep-walking. High on the finest drugs, maybe.

Becky takes a breath, a wistful and faint smile appearing behind her two fingers. She feels her chin shift against the pads of those fingers, not being able to wave the random happiness away.

“Just when you think the views couldn’t look any more like a postcard.”

The hunter’s voice surprises Charlotte, but she doesn’t show it. They’ve lasted a solid ten minutes or so without speaking ━ not that the break in quietude is unwanted. Sadly, their reticence has been a semi-harsh and unfortunate result of the historian’s reminding comment. Notifying them of how they’d both seemingly forgotten that this is their last venture together. That their departure from each other is imminent unless they change their minds. She chews her inner cheek in thought.

Truth be told, Charlotte _has_ changed her mind. Maybe not about going on another expedition with the woman next to her, but about leaving Becky’s side. They have a lot to make up for. Something tells her that the Irish woman knows it, too. The way she instantly tucked her tail between her legs at the notion that their time together is almost up. The way she made her disappointment known, even if she agreed to the terms. Even back in Oslo, the historian detected Becky’s faltered smile and her injured heart at the outright dismissal in regards to another trip in the future. Like she’d been hoping that this could be their thing. Charlotte supposes that she should take it as a compliment, really. The insinuation that Becky wishes to have her as a partner again and again. A bittersweet compliment, at that.

Charlotte sighs, agreeing with an unreadable “I was thinking the same.”

A constant, subtle bumping sound is delivered from the cobblestone’s uneven laying as the tires hit each crack at different intervals. Periodically, it shakes the Jeep, and sometimes they wonder how the pavement used to be. If it used to be entirely smooth, or a variation of smoothness that didn’t matter underneath the wheels of a horse-drawn carriage. They’re sure it was easier to handle, back then. Nowadays, we’re all spoiled with brisk, painted tar and rubber tires. Still, even with the bumps, it’s making for a nicer ride than when they traveled along the plain, dirt path deformed with deep potholes and puddles. Aesthetically speaking, it’s more official, too. Having to follow a brick-type road leading them to New Devon. This way, there’s not a doubt about where they’re heading. They know they’re on the right track to find their friends. As long as they’ve been taken to New Devon, that is.

Becky tries to force the contradicting thoughts away. She wants to focus on the nicer aspects of the trip. Pretending that they’re on a simple vacation just so happens to be the most distracting, and the best available tactic. Because of that, she tries her hardest to keep the conversation lighthearted. Flowing nicely, and simply. She doesn’t want to fall back into their quiet state. Not when they’ve come so far. Not when she’s been trying her best to stay open with the blonde.

“Man, imagine the scoop this place would’ve given you. For a report, I mean,” the musing holds a lowness as if it’s suddenly hit her, baffled while dragging her fingertips across her lower lip.

“Trust me, I’ve already thought about it,” Charlotte’s head leans back, getting comfortable. “I doubt anyone would believe it, though.”

“Cameras exist.”

“Not here with me.”

“Wait, you didn’t bring your camera?” her shock is uncanny, the historian thinks. “I know you lost your pack, but…”

“Nope,” it’s said with the raising of her eyebrows, mouth making a popping sound.

At the simplicity of it, her partner’s surprise persists, mouth partly agape with widened eyes. For a moment, she turns to Charlotte who stares ahead, then she refocuses on the road when she’s not turned to.

“You used to take that thing everywhere, even when climbing and diving,” a breathy laugh accompanies the comment, then her lips twist into a playful smirk. “I was surprised you hadn’t named it.”

Although it’s not digging for an answer, Charlotte seals her lips tightly. Then, her tongue drags along her upper teeth, thinking about what to say or if she should give Becky ammunition. The humor of it is just too much to keep inside, she thinks. So, in due time, the blonde takes a breath, and provides her partner with one word:

“Cam.”

The redhead frowns, all but choking out a quick, confused “What?”

“I named it ‘Cam.’”

A large laugh is granted from the confession. One that Charlotte imitates, but also rolls her eyes at. She knew Becky would get a kick out of it. Part of her wonders if she’s just doomed herself to a world of jokes, on the other hand. Then again, maybe it won’t be so bad. As long as she gets to keep Becky laughing. The historian forcibly seals her lips, lifting her chin in partial embarrassment mixed with her hope of clearing the blush from her cheeks.

“Cam the Camera?” the woman’s amusement steadies, cheekbones hurting from smiling so big before it all lessens and her voice falls back to normal. “That’s somethin’.”

“Mm, that’s why my parents never let me name our pets.”

“I’d let you name anything,” the diluted grin remains, though more bashful. “That’s brilliant.”

“Of course _you’d_ think so.”

Suddenly, her faint smile turns into a pout. Insinuation lies within Charlotte’s remark, and she’s aware that it’s likely a dig, but she’s not sure at what, exactly. Judging by the cunning smirk on the historian’s face, Becky’s assumption of it being a playful retort is a valid one. She faces Charlotte for a brief second, then turns away with the same, prominent pout.

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Next to her, Charlotte relaxes against the seat. Her fingers toy with the ends of her hair in front of her chest, soon dropping them back against her shoulder. An exhale comes through her nostrils, pursing her lips in partial satisfaction. Finally, she turns her head to look at Becky with a pointed stare. As if the Irish woman should know what she’s referring to, and she’s almost surprised that she doesn’t. As if she’s saying it’s obvious.

“You drop corny jokes every two seconds.”

 _“'Corny’ ?"_   she actually chokes out, and Charlotte cackles at the way her partner’s voice squeaks. “They’re tasteful!”

This time, the historian snorts at her cracked defense. It gets Becky to pout further ━ albeit Charlotte can see the tiny smile hidden within brown eyes. She shakes her head, at first, then chooses to support their consistent banter with a smirk and a mindless disagreement.

“If you’re into gagging.”

Becky’s left hand drops from her mouth, jokingly appalled. At the same time, her lips part, along with her eyebrows raising in faux insult. The epitome of being dumbfounded, or targeted. Charlotte is even shocked that she hasn’t heard a scratchy “I resent that!” as she keeps on raised eyebrows daring Becky to refute what they both know.

An array of different facial expressions and fifteen seconds later, the treasure hunter blinks hard and her posture stiffens. Both of her hands grip the wheel tightly. The amount of dramatics inserted into her newfound posture earn a snicker from the other woman. Especially when the redhead shifts her jaw, a tiny, dark chuckle slipping from her mouth. A scoff, more like.

 _“Wow,”_ the single word is exhaled. “I’m injured, yet you’re still picking on me.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes at the defense. Her joking attitude doesn’t decrease any.

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you like me to drive?”

“God, no,” her eyes bug. “I’m still recovering from the last time you drove.”

Turning the tables, it’s Charlotte whose jaw slackens with her mouth falling agape. Instantly, she turns to Becky with a slowness. Shot in her direction is a pair of rapidly blinking eyes that challenge her to attempt defending her skills ━ or lack thereof ━ during their last experience. Initially, the blonde can’t find it in her to respond. She can hardly _fathom_ the idea of changing Becky’s mind as she remembers what they were up against, let alone actually _do_ it. Becky knew what the stakes were, and she knew what was going on around them. Currently, all she can do is leave her mouth open, eyebrows furrowed, appearing overly addressed by Becky basically saying that she doesn’t know how to drive. Considering the instance in which the lone time happened, it’s unfair. Becky is so lucky they’re just playing around right now, Charlotte thinks. A devilish, _“watch yourself”_ type of laugh emanates from the historian’s throat.

“What? You can dish it out, but you can’t take it?” Becky bats her back and forth. _“Pfft,_ royalty.”

“Excuse me?” much to her own displeasure, she laughs in the process. “If I _must_ remind you, we were being shot at, the windshield shattered, and we were going down a mudslide!”

“Bah, I would’ve conquered that with flying colors,” her head shakes to brush off Charlotte’s mounting excuses. “And _then_ some,” it’s added for extra effect, raising her finger in a point.

“Then why’d you hire Bayley if you’re so good at driving?” the rise in smugness shades the historian’s features.

It’s a good point, and they both know it. So much so, Becky doesn’t manage to cover up her loss of clever traction. Rather quickly, she does herself no favors, and her facade is broken. Because, within a second or two of Charlotte’s quick toss-back, the Irish woman’s mouth opens and closes multiple times before finding the wherewithal to scratch for an argument. By then, her partner has already gained a taste of victory.

“I… wanted to make sure I wasn’t too distracted by everything else I had to do,” even the eventual reasoning is the least bit convincing, and Charlotte quirks an eyebrow.

“Like breaking cliffs, falling out of buildings, getting shot at, making terrible jokes…”

“Exactly!” the lightness, the optimism in her agreement is overwhelming, particularly displayed in the way her shoulders relax with an overall content body language.

“Oh, brother.”

Contradicting Charlotte’s eye-roll is her smile, even when she looks away. Even so, even without being faced, Becky detects the unbridled amusement in the other woman’s voice, not to mention her obvious enjoyment in their conversation. That in mind, she proceeds to defend herself.

“Plus, I don’t drive boats!”

Turns out, she should’ve stopped while she was ahead. The playful justification has the opposite effect, hindering that beloved enjoyment and enthrallment. Against Becky’s intentions, she reminds Charlotte of the past. She reminds Charlotte of when she had her guide ━ previously _their_ guide ━ drive off. Leaving the historian stranded on that foreign dock without a clue of where her partner went. Alone, and left in the dust.

As soon as the words dropped from her tongue, the treasure hunter wished to kick herself for them. Even before the blonde registered what she’s said, before she was drilled by the memories that accompany, Becky hated herself for it. She should’ve held back, she should’ve fought off the idea of being her usual, joking self. Solidifying her blunder, the feeling of regret and guilt amplifies once Charlotte speaks.

“I _know_ you don’t drive boats.”

The dryness in her voice pierces straight through Becky. She seals her lips at the sadness that courses through her veins. An apology is sitting on the tip of her tongue, as well. For whatever reason, it won’t force itself out of her mouth. It won’t be heard, or given in sincerity. Although Becky feels remorse for her actions, and although she knows Charlotte is waiting for her to mention it… there’s still a heaviness in her chest that blocks the words from ultimate fruition. Perhaps it’s because she still hasn’t apologized for what’s happened, this time around. She’s not sure which she should do first, or if it matters. _Does_ it matter? Becky swallows hard. All she knows is that there’s a lot to apologize for, and her head is spinning about it.

It gets quiet, the treasure hunter feeling both guilty and scorned. In the opposite seat, Charlotte deals with a similar struggle. Her mind flails on a constant loop of apologies for snapping, opposing her own grievances and acceptance that she’s allowed to be sharp. Although, with that said, she refuses to let things get awkward again. Not this time. Not when they’re so close to New Devon, and they’ll need a clear mindset to gather their bearings. To find their friends. For the sake of their sanity, she changes the subject. Sure, it’s bound to be less entertaining, but it’s still something.

“How’s your head?”

Becky thinks about lying. Despite her vehement claims that she’ll be open, there lingers the _what if_ ’s in regards to if Charlotte won’t accept the honesty. Quite frankly, the truth will make the historian more worried. In the long run, that won’t help either one of them. But, no matter what, Becky has taken a vow to be genuine with her partner. To be thorough, leaving no stone unturned. No more secrets, no more lying. At their smallest, even, they do no good. She can clamor and rant on about how those lies are for Charlotte’s protection, but do either of them believe that’s true? Moreover, do either of them believe it’s _right?_ No. Nowadays, after everything, Becky knows better. Security never comes in the form of deception. It’s something she’s learned time and time again on this island. Against her will, or with surrender to the notion. If she brings nothing else back to the mainland, at least she’ll head back a better person. A more grounded person, at that. Someone who can alter her own perspective to empathize, or understand what it takes to be a reliable companion. More than anything, that’s what Becky wants. Not only for Charlotte, Bayley, and Sasha, but also for herself. _Mainly_ for herself.

“Throbbing,” following the mental debate, her answer finally comes, straight and to the point.

“Seriously, should I drive, instead?”

There’s that predictive, negative reaction. Though she’d expected it, Becky huffs.

“No, Charlotte, I’m fine enough to function.”

“You could be concussed for all we know.”

“I’d know if I was concussed,” her nails dig into the wheel. “I’ve had plenty of concussions before.”

 _Foot in mouth,_ she stresses at herself. Charlotte makes an irritated, _“unbelievable”_ type of sound. Again: a scoff. Becky’s grip on the steering wheel loosens, and an internal whine prodding herself to apologize surfaces. She’s beaten to the response.

“That’s no more comforting than if we didn’t know,” the historian displays dreadful eyes and a mask tinted by nervousness about the knowledge.

Becky turns to Charlotte. Their eye contact is fierce. Through it, a miniature, underlying conversation ensues. She can sense the blonde trying to dig within her gaze to find a trace of lying. A trace of something that tells her they _should_ pull over and switch seats. Above all, Charlotte wants to make sure Becky isn’t putting on a false identity and forcing herself into pretending that she’s okay. The redhead doesn’t blink, nor does she hide her true feelings. Admittedly, she’s worried for her own well-being, but she’s serious when saying that she’ll be fine. She’ll live. It’s nothing she can’t handle, really, and that’s not just her being a hard-ass.

Charlotte is the first to look away, still shaking her head. The motion singes Becky, and she nods slightly to herself. Her eyebrows raise for a second, then drop as she wets her lips. Next, she takes a breath through her nose, then treads carefully.

“I know,” she agrees with her partner’s last statement. “And… I know you’re worried.”

“Can you blame me?” the question holds a desperate crack, thinking Becky is annoyed.

Her expression is damaged. Defensive, almost. Borderline pleading with the treasure hunter. It’s what tells Becky that she ━ for certain, if there was ever any doubt ━ cares about her. That she cares for her health. In _every_ aspect of it. The expression also keeps the redhead calm, if she’s being honest. There’s even a short twitch of her lips that’s the remnants of a relieved smile. A smile that explains she’s just received confirmation she’s been longing for, no matter how often it’s been shown. Although, even with that flicker of happiness, it’s gone as soon as it came. Becky’s throat feels sore, knowing she should say her piece.

“No,” when she turns to Charlotte, eyes begging to lock with that cherished ocean color, her voice wavers with total seriousness and ache. “I actually _thank_ you for it. Maybe I can’t worry for myself, but knowing you do just…” Becky bites her tongue, words trailing off with her eyes slamming shut. “That was selfish, I’m sorry,” with a blink and a tightening jaw, she stares at the road.

Charlotte bows her head, “I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“Are you sure? Not even I do,” the mutter is self-loathing, annoyed.

With Becky’s irritation towards herself growing, the blonde’s lessens. At the sound of her self-pitying voice, she gives the redhead a slanted smile. If Charlotte could, she’d take their conversation backwards a few minutes in time. She didn’t mean to turn things so dark when they’d both been enjoying themselves. In a general sense, she supposes that it’s a knee-jerk reaction to cozying up with Becky. After what they’ve been through, added to the fact that it’s gone unresolved and unspoken about… her heart still guards itself. Defenses are still raised, whether that entails putting a wall up or going on offense. Biting the bullet before it shoots her first, she guesses. That way, if she derails their happiness, she won’t have to experience heartbreak again. It’s no secret that Becky has shown tremendous evidence that she’s changing, even in a short amount of time. That’s a given. However, Charlotte still waits to hear the hunter’s perspective in light of what’s happened both recently and years ago. She waits to hear apologies, and a separate outlook. What went on behind the scenes, from Becky’s view. That’s all she wants. God, she should just say it, really.

Opposing that, no amount of sincerity seems to be soothing Becky’s internal distress. The anger that’s directed at herself and dependent on what she’s put them through. Charlotte knows she blames herself. It’s been clear since the get-go. Even with the Irish woman more exposed since her confrontation with her past, her layers are suddenly peeled back. It’s like she stopped hiding the disdain she’s held against herself. And, granted, a lot of shit that’s happened _is_ the redhead’s fault. That doesn’t mean ━ in any sense ━ that Becky doesn’t deserve to be cared for. So, yeah, the treasure hunter can push away her self-directed worry yet still be glad that _Charlotte_ worries for her. That doesn’t make it selfish. We all want someone to care, sooner rather than later. It has nothing to do with independence, either. Or who deserves it. Bottom line: it’s a humane thing. It’s about time that Becky understands that.

Her head tilts to the side as she’s turned toward Becky. Diligent eyes search the woman’s profile as she’s lost in thought, staring ahead. No amount of focus derails Becky’s obvious annoyance at her own, recent words. A frown on her face, forehead creased, shoulders tightened. Quite frankly, she looks as though she’s distraught. Teetering on the edge of slapping her hands against the wheel in frustration for amazingly fucking up with what she’s been _trying_ to say. Charlotte knows the feeling all too well.

“It’s okay to want someone to care.”

The words seem to pull a plug from Becky’s posture. A shaky breath leaves her lips within an instant. Her shoulders relax. Her eyes become more gentle, less frigid. Charlotte watches it all happen, too. The change in attitude is conflicting, however. It remains to be seen if it’s an outcome of relief, or a toxic result of Becky previously harboring a lungful of dwindling breath to punish herself. Holding her breath in hopes that she could keep herself from saying something else stupid, perhaps. An emotional whipping for not valiantly speaking exactly to what she’s felt, or doing it with ease.

With her head shaking weakly, Becky licks her lips. A giveaway of the impending disagreement and dismissal of Charlotte’s claim. Impending drive to refute it, or argue against it. Charlotte braces herself for it, as well. Almost wanting to roll her eyes for the umpteenth time, though, for this matter, they’d be via serious dismay against Becky’s refusal of acceptance. And, after the redhead’s mouth opens and closes multiple times, words stuck in her throat, the historian’s suspicions prove true. She knows Becky as much as she used to. After all these years, she can still read her like a book.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

Charlotte wishes to convince her otherwise. She wishes to rasp out a shaky “Of _course_ I should care.” Because she _does_ care. Nowadays, it’s the only thing that comes naturally to her. The only thing that’s considered her norm or her usual. Her original state of being. Caring for Becky Lynch ━ the one person who’s put her heart through hell and back.

Lately, she’s willingly succumbed to those emotions. More directly, in past hours, Charlotte has stopped fending them off. It’s no use, and she knows it. Hell, she doesn’t _want_ to bother fighting them off anymore. For years, she’d stopped feeling everything aside from ache and questions about Becky’s existence. Where she was, what she was doing, how she was faring. So, when the treasure hunter waltzed into that Oslo museum, proving that she’d been fine throughout the years with a keen smile on her face, Charlotte reacted with both boldness and a sense of refusal. Absolute _rejection._ But, unbeknownst to Becky, that frigid persona wasn’t directed at the mission, itself, but at the idea of falling back into old, vulnerable habits.

The blonde had been burnt by the very thing that Becky loves when taking on that Shambhala venture with Shayna, yes, but that’s not what ground against her memory more than most. It was the thought of reopening a wound that had hardly healed in years after Becky abandoned her. She’d been falling for her so hard, so deeply, and she thought the Irish woman felt the same. She _knew_ Becky felt the same. In days’ time, her world was flipped onto its head when she was thrown away, when she was cast out and forgotten, all for the sake of… _what?_ “Protection”? That’s what Becky said, isn’t it? She wanted to protect Charlotte, and make sure she was safe. At what cost, though? Throwing away her _own_ shield against outside forces?

Through the monumental growth that Becky has endured recently and proven throughout this whole island expedition, there’s still one thing she’s held back from. There’s still one, lingering thing she hasn’t shown improvement towards: the acceptance of deserving care. The allowance of it, furthermore. Through her honesty, her put-forth selflessness ━ whether it was before the altercation with Lacey and Rhea, or now that they’re separated from their friends ━ Becky hasn’t changed in the area of believing she deserves to be taken care of. Or her pride on the grounds of believing it, that is. Maybe she thinks she doesn’t need it. Maybe she thinks it makes her look weak.

Whatever the reason, Charlotte refuses to sit back any longer. She _will_ prove to her partner that it’s okay to accept care and comfort. It’s okay to expect it, too. It’s not selfish. We all need it, one time or another. Charlotte would be beyond happy to be the one who provides it, too. The idea of Becky trusting her enough to let her into those inner mechanisms… _shit._ The redhead ceasing rejection of Charlotte’s love and affection would mend more than words ever could. Unknowingly or not, she’s rejected it plenty of times. Internally, she pleads with the treasure hunter to let her in. Silence only says so much, but it’s there. It’s always there.

Charlotte’s eyebrows knit together, looking in Becky’s direction before evading it.

In total, Becky’s never wanted anyone’s sentiment, but, now… the historian isn’t giving her a choice. It’s all or nothing, this time. No more one-sided emotions, or caveats, or asterisks. No more pretending, or lying, or falsified “protection.” Once the blonde gets the opportunity to make it known, she will. Above anything, there’s no more waiting. She can tell, from the sadness halting Becky’s motions ━ her features, directly ━ that she’s already waited too long. Her forced walls haven’t just guarded her sanity from Becky’s charm, but they’ve also created a blockade that’s kept them apart. As far as Charlotte is concerned, in the process of saving herself from the presumably selfish human known as Becky Lynch, she’s become just as valid to blame for their mutual heartbreak and estranged relationship of any kind. An internal ache is only so much of an excuse to stay guarded. To stay crude and spiteful ━ in a lesser form of each.

It’s time to move on from that. It’s time to fix things, once and for all, and make up for lost time.

Once they’re done with the task at hand, at least. Once they drive into New Devon, and have their imminent, undoubtedly massive objective laid out. Charlotte breathes deeply, relaxing her head against the seat. Becky ignores the sound, starting to once again fiddle with her lower lip.

“What are the chances we run into some more unfriendly people?”

A displayed sense of surprise is felt when Becky hears Charlotte’s voice, unblinking as she side-eyes the blonde woman. Her body stiffens, as well. The historian breathes out a laugh through her nostrils, finding the reaction cute. Super caught off-guard, pretty much for no reason. She hides her smile by raising her eyebrows in question, Becky making a popping noise with her mouth. At first, the treasure hunter lies silent, just looking ahead, but once they’re on a straight road with nothing else to focus on, she gives her partner a pointed half-smile that speaks volumes. Come to think of it, the question _was_ a little silly. Giving Becky a firm nod, Charlotte takes her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Right.”

There’s a pause, only disrupted by the Jeep’s humming. Soon further disrupted by the knowledge that they’re heading uphill. It’s not too steep of an incline, so the vehicle isn’t pestered by the extra tension bearing down against its frontside. However, at the same time, Charlotte notes the whizzing of the tires. She knows they’re getting closer to something, judging by the winding cobblestone road that appears at the peak of the hill. No longer straightened, or unblemished, or easily spotted. Their surroundings are more sporadic now, too. Long gone are the beautiful flowers, the scarce trees allowing for panoramic scenery. Only remaining is the lush grass, the road, and spurts of dense forest. Clumps of it, like someone planted five or six seedlings per every few yards of land.

Above them, the sky turns darker. More overcasted, with occasional leaves flowing in liberty with the wind. Although the air’s color isn’t menacing, it’s also not quite due to the impending sunset, either. The clouds’ shadows remain toning the land, spanning across the canvas entirely. Backing the trees, coloring the distance in front of them. Dark blues and purples, both mixing with a greyish hue. It’s unnerving, but not terribly so. They’re definitely rain clouds. Possibly even storm clouds. Poofy and filled to the brim, ready to break their seal at any moment. There’s certainly time to drive, however. Time to find shelter, if need be, or time to sneak into New Devon and begin their rounds searching for Bayley and Sasha.

“It’s getting gloomy,” Charlotte searches the sky, then lowers her chin.

Her gaze zones in on the car’s console. Its radio and everything beside it. Currently, there’s a thick layer of dirt and mud crusted over the majority of its knobs and buttons. A result of heading through the earlier river, she theorizes. Her hand reaches out to chip some of the dry residue away, searching for the radio’s screen beneath the gritty remnants. After a bit of work and a scrunched nose, Charlotte graces them with a dull hum. Becky side-eyes her, then flexes her fingers against the wheel’s leather.

“Nearly eight o’clock, too,” a sigh follows, once again leaning against her seat. “At the camp, I heard some soldiers talking about the radar. They won’t be moving if it rains,” the information is shared as she tilts her head in Becky’s direction.

“Still, let’s hope it’s nothing,” the hunter’s cheeks puff out, not tearing her eyes away from the road.

“Do you think they’ll work overnight if it doesn’t?”

“Don’t think so,” Becky responds honestly, shrugging her shoulders. “Lacey used to set up shop right after sunset, each day. Didn’t like workin’ in the dark, I guess. Or, should I say, _supervising.”_

Charlotte chuckles at Becky’s blatant correction matched with an eye-roll.

Realistically, she doesn’t have much time to delve into the simple chit-chat before they’re rounding a rocky outcrop with a large depiction of Avery stood atop.

The car slows without stopping completely, both women looking up to see his likeness covered in mossy strands and stringy vines that hang down. A red bird vacates his statued shoulder as they stall right in front of the structure’s base. They note his stance, how his right hand is holding onto a sword that’s pointed in the direction they’re heading. Just past the point of his weapon, if they were to head straight, is a waterfall that they’ll be driving alongside the source of. A tall stretch of cascading water heading to the ground approximately two-hundred feet below. Complete with sharp rocks at the bottom, from what they can see when they crane their necks over the car’s hood. Behind the waterfall, as they sit back down, they witness the backdrop of more, misty mountains taller than most skyscrapers. Indigo and shades of violet, eventually blending into the stormy, grey sky. Still, it’s yet another nice view from where they putter along, they’d say.

Once Becky presses more onto the gas, once they’ve cleared the bend of obstructing rocks, a second bridge comes into view. This one is fully intact, much to Charlotte’s deep breath. Nearby, Becky tries not to giggle at her non-verbalized “Oh, thank God,” but she knows it’s there.

Stretching across the river’s width, the structure is held together by solid stone. Decorative archways line its underside, standing upright. Keeping it anchored into the wet ground, more importantly. It’s white in color, covered with those same, green webbings that prove its age. Only a few cracks ail its sides, but nothing too extreme. It looks made of marble, from where they bump along. Not polished as if it’s a countertop, but matte and beautiful. A symbol of where they’re heading. With closer proximity, they’ll have a better view.

From where they currently drive, they do obtain one piece of information about the structure: it’s built above a river that’s certainly deeper than the last. Additionally, one that’s much more lively. One that’s disturbed in an assortment of areas by a display of rocks. Various boulders, too, all sticking out from the water like those jagged rocks surrounding the island.

If she’s noticed one, outstanding thing amongst the various aspects while driving closer to New Devon, it’s that with the monumental beauty comes the trade-off of more threatening elements. The broken bridge, the muddy hills, the elevators. Beautiful in their own right, but also potentially dangerous. Definitely hazardous. Holding various unknowns. It makes her wonder what they’ll confront once they fully enter New Devon. Besides the island’s natural conditions and the age of Avery’s civilization, they’re bound to stumble upon set booby traps by the biggest-name pirate, himself. Especially if that’s where his treasure ended up. In that case, there’s absolutely no doubt that they’ll find themselves compromised by whatever-it-is. One thing at a time, she reminds herself.

The wind picks up as they drive through a patch of jungle. More leaves are taken with its random gusts, blowing over the car’s hood and tumbling along the ground. For a moment, both women narrow their eyes and turn their heads away from the source: a small spurt of dense trees as they follow the road closer to the bridge. By the looks of it, with the wafting air subsiding and Charlotte’s chin lifting to observe the treeline, she’s also noticed the change in weather. Becky chews her inner cheek, side-eyeing her partner. It’s now moved away from the coined term of “gloomy,” as the historian said minutes ago. There’s definitely a storm on the horizon. She shakes it off, steering carefully.

As if the wind wasn’t enough of its own pesterance, within feet they’re met with a more tangible obstruction: a large boulder crashed onto the cobblestone, denting the flat slabs. Cracking most of them, too. Pushing her apprehension and caution into the back of her mind, Becky takes a right to swerve around it. Granted, the road doesn’t get easier from there. Now, they’re faced with a muddy hill. Not too much of an incline, no, but enough to cause alert. Becky slumps, feeling the engine putter with timid approach to the obstacle.

“It can never be easy, can it?”

Mainly, the joke is directed at herself but also at the universe. Charlotte snickers, anyway. It’s lost between them, realistically when the tires already whirl against the slick substance. More gas is given to the car, Becky pinching her teeth together with a subtle pressure, and the car gingerly swerves to one side when the other gets stuck against the mud. Becky huffs in an odd, irritated sound, yet again mentally cursing at the slope. Really, it looks like a common ramp into a goddamn building. Nothing too impervious, or detrimental. Not enough to keep them away from New Devon, or from saving their friends. Yet, here they are, having their progress stunted by a little bump.

Nevertheless, two minutes of struggle ensue before Becky gets sick of it. Sick of coaxing the vehicle through it without force, and sick of the island’s mind games. She pushes harder on the gas, thinking it’ll backfire on her since that’s the universe’s usual backhand. Much to her surprise, it gets them atop the peak of the hill, almost as if they hadn’t gotten stuck at all. Typical, she thinks.

Their landing brings about a sense of realization more than relief about accomplishing the miniature task. Now, they’re ready to take a sharp u-turn. After that, they’ll be a few feet away from the bridge’s entrance. But, beyond everything, they’ll be only a length of cobblestone away from New Devon’s exterior. Away from the depicted, towering wall that surrounds the pirate’s homestead and keeps outsiders away. They’re so close. In light of everything they’ve faced, they’re so, _so_ close. Imagine that, the treasure hunter beams with a tiny grin.

“New Devon’s just across this bridge,” the front tires approach its threshold. “Ready?” the redhead faces Charlotte, wanting confirmation before anything.

“Ready,” a smile is given, also showing a decisive nod.

There’s no turning back now. Charlotte takes a breath, nerves stirring in her gut. Outwardly, she has to pretend she’s not itching to reach across the center console and grab Becky’s hand. It’s just something about heading into new territory ━ a new essence, entirely ━ that causes this bridge to feel deeper than the structure, itself. The angel-esque statues built on the two, siding pillars of the entrance don’t help her nerves, either. The angels are playing harps, too. Showing off Avery’s flare for the dramatic, if the arched bridge wasn’t enough. Altogether, it proves that they’re so close to tasting the air of New Devon. They’re so close to running their fingers along its surfaces. Taking in the inevitable sights, letting their eyes roam the scenery. The place where Avery, himself, lived and likely spent his dying days.

By the same token, on a mental level, it proves they’re so close to searching for their friends. To _finding_ them. At this point, that’s all Becky wants to do. In due time, they’ll grab Sasha and Bayley, maybe beat Rhea and Lacey in the process, then they’ll scram. They’ll leave unscathed. And, in past cases, Becky’s mind would scream that they’ll also leave unfulfilled. Incomplete. They’ll be sent back to the mainland empty-handed. Now? Honestly, she doesn’t care. Again: the treasure be damned. No amount of gold is worth it anymore. No amount of redemption, either. As far as the Irish woman is concerned, the only redemption she needs now will come from finding their friends. Then and only then will she find a way to live with herself. Until that happens…

Becky puffs out her cheeks in a curt breath. Her body language stiffens, nostrils flaring slightly. She’s ready to get this over with, and ready to raise hell within New Devon’s belly.

Careful precision gives the car more gas as they proceed, the two, front tires rolling onto the cobblestone. First, they get a feel for it. The grooves, the occasional divots, the crevices. Becky feels the wind shaking the bridge’s pillars, but not too much. Not enough to wreak havoc. Within seconds, they’re gaining speed along the lengthy stretch of bridge. Wider than the last, and longer by at least twenty yards.

Her eyes focus ahead of them, attempting to break through the seal of trees at the bridge’s exit. No avail. It’s completely blocked off by vegetation, which they’ll have to evade.

 _Focus,_ she calms herself.

For a second, she does just that. But only for a single second.

_Crack._

What resembles the noise of a thick tree trunk snapping in half shakes the ground beneath them. A thunk is felt. Around them, below them, behind them. Both women pale, on instant. It’s such a disgusting, terrible sound that Becky doesn’t even want to peer over her shoulder. She doesn’t want to search for the source of it, or harp on what’s caused the noise. Instead, her foot presses against the pedal more. She can’t think twice about this.

_Crack._

The second round is worse. It sounds thicker. More important. This time, Charlotte manages to peer over her shoulder. What she sees doesn’t make her face ease of its worries. Not by a long shot. There, she finds a giant plate of stone shifting. Like they’re driving along fragments of ice that merely crumble once ridden of the vehicle’s weight. Water flies upward with every chunk that’s dropped into the rushing river, shooting into the air in a giant splash. On sight, the historian’s eyes widen. Simultaneously, her hand grips Becky’s shoulder with a rough, desperate grasp.

“Drive. _Now.”_

Becky is milliseconds away from listening. She’s milliseconds away from slamming her foot onto the pedal in hopes that it’ll help them escape whatever-it-is that gains behind them. There’s no time, in actuality. Not when a split suddenly slopes them downwards, then all but throws them backwards.

In the blink of an eye, the Jeep collapses into the water. The two women go with it, buckled in. The car’s mass splashes against the wind-stirred waves with cold liquid attaching to their skin. Becky spits an ounce or two out of her mouth, coughing when she inhaled it up her nose. At the newfound dampness, their clothes cling to their bodies. Their fresh wounds are prominent with the shiny gloss. Mist comes from the tires spinning, the vehicle slanted into the water but keeping its contents otherwise free of the rush of it. That changes as they flow with the current, occasionally allowing for a gallon or five to seep into the seats and wet the leather.

Upon impact, Charlotte’s hands are already reaching for her buckle. She undoes it, ready to find her way out of the vehicle whenever possible. Her eyes search the perimeter. Alongside them, feet away, are overhangs of fallen trees and plant life. A cliffside that’s too high to reach by swimming. The car isn’t close enough to use as a launchpad, either. The blonde grits her teeth, standing on the car floor and curling her fingers around the windshield’s top in order to scope out a way to safety.

Another wave rocks the car, causing Charlotte to stumble. More so, it sends a round of liquid up her nose. She chokes on it, hearing the tires whiz within the water beneath them. For the most part, it’s drown out. The roar of the falls is too much of a white noise to permeate. Really, it’s a crude reminder of the debacle they’re in. How they’re both frantic yet haven’t decided on what to do. Currently, both women are operating on strict autopilot.

While Charlotte’s eyes dot along the surrounding area, Becky relies on her attempts of steering them away from where the rushing water takes them. As if she believes she can turn the vehicle around and drive off, like the wheels will allow for enough spin to create a makeshift motor. They only spin beneath the surface, much to her displeasure. Occasionally, a rock is caught, and they’re spun this way and that. Charlotte almost yells at Becky to stop. To stop pretending that it’s going to work, to stop pretending that they’ll be able to escape this fate with the car in pristine condition. As it looks now, it poses more of a threat, taking them down the river, than if the two of them were to swim against the current. The only thing it’s good for is existing as a shoddy boat with an engine full of water. A curse more than anything.

“Becky, we have to get out of here,” Charlotte’s voice is hollow, panicking.

Another wave comes. More inhaling of the liquid, more coughing. Becky wipes away her braid when it’s stuck against her cheek. She’s about to agree with Charlotte. She’s in the process of nodding, in the process of relenting and unbuckling, when they’re slammed into a rock. A clunk rattles the Jeep, denting its taupe-colored hood.

“Shit, shit, _shit.”_

They’re sideways now. The vehicle is turned, backside closer to the cliff as smoke seeps out from beneath the metal of its hood. Brown eyes widen at its damaged state. How it pollutes the air around them, blending with the falls’ mist. They’re closer to the waterfall now, judging by its white noise growing stronger in their ears. Becky’s suspicion is confirmed, granted by Charlotte peering around an upcoming rock. Her features slack, still pale, and she’s ferociously bothered by the sight.

“Oh, God,” it’s raspy. “The current’s taking us toward the falls. _Fast.”_

“Okay, don’t panic,” her words’ fright contradict the statement.

Unlike before, Becky manages to unbuckle with shaking fingertips. Her limbs vibrate while she stands up with Charlotte, ready to give out at any second. Meanwhile, at her insane instruction, the blonde turns to her with widened, _“are you serious?”_ eyes. As if Becky thought her “comforting” direction would be, well, _comforting._

“What _else_ do you expect me to do?“

The Irish woman is staring past her, and a sparkle pops into her gaze with her finger pointing.

“Root!”

“What?” she frowns.

Lacking a verbal answer, the redhead’s grapple is unlatched from her belt. Then, it’s tossed onto a thick tree root hanging down over the cliff’s edge. Partly woven into the stone, as well. Anchored perfectly. It’s low enough for them to use as a prop onto the cliff. As long as they use the Jeep for a boost, at least. First, she’ll have to pull them and the vehicle closer to the area, against the current’s force. Not her best idea, considering her failing arm strength after the day’s events.

Becky grimaces at the pain but forces her eyes open, pulling them with all she has left. Charlotte worries as she sees, watching her partner’s face twist and turn red. Watching the way her neck’s veins tighten, her knuckles, her forearms. By all means, it’s no easy task. The historian wishes to relieve her of the workload. She wishes to help. Getting in the way isn’t going to do them any good, however.

It’s only seconds before they’re at the cliff’s base. Ready to climb onto the stone surface. Becky holds onto the rope for dear life, lessening her jaw’s clench and nodding to the side so Charlotte will get the hint.

“Go!” Becky says, then grunts when she nearly lets go of the rope. “I’ll follow you.”

Charlotte doesn’t have time to refuse, nor does she have time to hesitate or second-guess her partner. From the further-reddening tone of Becky’s complexion, she doesn’t have much time. Even if she doesn’t want to leave the treasure hunter alone in a precarious position, neither of them will benefit if they’re both sent down the rapids. At least from the surface, she can reach for Becky’s hand and pull her up.

Keeping that in mind, she stands on the passenger side’s door and shimmies up the rope. Through the entire time, Becky watches her movements and nearly whines at the strain on her biceps, needing to adjust herself a handful of times. Spreading through her shoulders and even her chest, the pain is searing. It slinks up her neck. It causes her hands’ veins to feel like they’re going to burst under pressure. Her knuckles are white, by now. Her limbs feel like jelly. Everything tingles until the strain dwindles a fraction, Charlotte safely atop the cliffside.

Catching Becky’s eye is her backpack in the seat next to her. It’s a stupid idea, and she knows it. She can’t afford to lose their stuff, on the other hand. The medical kit, their food, their supplies. The book that Charlotte cares so fondly for. Without thinking twice, the Irish woman lets go of the rope with one hand. A white-hot sensation pulls at her arm, nearly snatching it from its socket. Shaking fingertips reach for the bag’s strap, grasping it and throwing it to Charlotte with a cried-out “Take this!”

“What? Forget the fucking bag,” the disbelief in her response is strong, the historian’s foot nudging it away before she leans closer to the ledge. “Hurry your ass up!”

Her hand is extended for Becky to take. A simple act. What should be a simple act, that is. She’s about to be safe, with the blonde, ready to walk to New Devon. Sadly, the universe keeps up with its shitty enthrallment in fucking Becky over. In the end, the treasure hunter doesn’t get the chance to accept Charlotte’s help. Her time runs out right as she has one boot planted on the Jeep’s door. Next to Charlotte, the root breaks with a large snap, and the car is thrown backwards with Becky’s rope going limp.

“Becky!”

The abrupt force rocks the redhead backwards, falling into the steering wheel with a thud. Blue-green eyes widen in dismay.

Around the hunter, more waves crash against the side of the vehicle. They threaten to rock it so hard it’ll flip onto its back, taking Becky with it. Meanwhile, Charlotte runs along the cliff, following her partner down the river.

Shaking her head free of hair plastered to her damp face, Becky huffs out deep breaths. Ridding her lungs of building water while gathering her grapple and holding onto it. With any luck, she’ll find something else to latch it onto. Something to save her from the impending, dropping end. A piece of vegetation. A rocky outcrop. Anything to latch onto. All in hopes that it’ll hold on a whim, against the force of both her body and the falls’ speed.

The giant waterfall is only thirty feet away now, growing closer. That’s when Charlotte’s panic goes from being silent to dreadfully aware.

“Becky?” it’s spoken in contrast to shouted like moments ago, but it’s all she can say.

“Working on it,” her body is on edge, tightened to its maximum state and ready to dismantle itself as her frantic eyes scour the area.

Clearing another foot or so, Charlotte runs out of room to follow. She stands on the very edge of the cliff, gaze permanently unblinking as she waits to see if Becky makes it, or…

 _No._ She’s going to make it.

Treading the river’s lively body, the Irish woman still searches the grounds for her saving grace. For the thing that’ll keep her surviving just a little while longer. For the thing that’ll give her a chance to right her wrongs. She’s mere feet from the waterfall’s beginning now, trying to delay as much as she can. Mist peppers her skin. Splashes invade the Jeep, slamming against its metal sides. Her hair is too damp to keep from slapping against her cheeks, and she tries to ignore it now. Sweat builds below the river’s dirty water, both coating her arms and neck. Her clothing, too.

It’s only when Becky looks up, at the historian, that she finds what she’s been looking for: an old tree overhanging from the cliff, approximately twenty feet above her. The smile that surfaces is minute and short-lived. Disrupted by her tongue pinched between her teeth as she swings her arm once, twice, three times. The hook is sent through the air with valiance, wrapping around the tree’s largest limb before clinking when it’s secure. Charlotte breathes out, preparing herself to help Becky if she needs it.

A few feet and four tires later, Becky’s arms pull her from the Jeep just as it leans over the fall’s origin. Just as it drops through its curtain of water, leaving with the river that carried it, and falling to its death. Once it hits the rocks, an explosion ensues. As Becky hangs atop its demise, her eyes slam shut and she cradles her head as much as she can, given her position of extended arms and bow-legged knees. The warmth clouds her body, feeling the fire’s outcome flash upwards against her clothing with smoke following. Her eyes sting at the soot, and her nose cries at the smell of gasoline ignited. It makes her throat swell with dryness, Becky resisting the urge to gag.

Around the rope’s fibers, her fingers flex and hold on tight. Her knees rub together and her feet are collided. Hanging onto the rope for dear life. All in all, it’s still a scene that allows Charlotte to breathe out.

Even with Becky’s pain becoming agonizing with the mounting time of her hang, she manages to flash the universe a smile. The pain sure as hell beats dying at the bottom of the waterfall. Now, all she has to do is swing to the cliff. She knows Charlotte will be there, waiting. Waiting to help her up, and waiting for Becky to collapse into her arms. Hell, the treasure hunter might even accept the gesture.

Her eyes slam shut. As she hangs, she can’t look down. Nay: she refuses to look down. With a deep, gradual breath leaving her chest, her chin lifts.

“Okay, it’s okay.”

The self-directed encouragement only does so much. It only keeps her curiosity at bay for a mere tick longer. In the end, that curiosity always wins. It always bites her in the ass, or comes back to haunt her. Against Becky’s bitter judgement, she peers downward. An immediate sickness rolls through her stomach like its own, thrashing wave. Her eyes slam shut again, a sharp breath shooting back into her lungs. She chokes on it, then winces while leaning her forehead against the rope. Still, she can’t shake the image from her mind. The height of the potential fall. From the tips of her boots to the treetops below, there’s at least two hundred feet of open air that the wind wafts through. It’s an even bigger drop if she were to avoid the foliage. If she were to fall straight into the shallow, rocky water. She’d prefer to suffer neither of the two fates. Becky shudders, features contorting as her body slowly spins in place.

“I’m okay,” again, she tries to convince herself.

An exhale snakes out from between her lips, Becky trying her hardest to even her breathing. Upon the nearby cliff, Charlotte doesn’t speak. She doesn’t want to somehow interrupt the redhead’s focus on keeping herself sane while hung above such a hefty drop. Her throat bobs with thickness, her insides sore and tired from waiting.

Whatever minor shade of reassurance concocted by Becky’s words is dismantled within a beat.

_Crack._

Not the sound of stone, this time, but the sound of wood. Both women’s mouths open in-sync, but only Charlotte looks at the source. Turning her head, she watches the old tree beginning to sag. The tree that Becky is depending on to stay anchored. The limb, specifically, is starting to shatter under the new weight enforced on its thickest portion. On sight, the historian’s panic comes back full-throttle, heart in her throat as she shifts her boots until she’s on the very edge of the cliff. Gravel falls to the ground below, but she has to get as close as she can to Becky.

“The tree...” another crack overruns her harrowed tone, gaze darting between the quaking bark and her partner dangling from what might as well be a damn string. “The _tree_ is _not_ okay,” Charlotte stresses, a tremor in the way she says it.

“Oh, give me a fucking _break,_ already,” Becky yells, mostly at herself, and ignores the inadvertent pun that’s labored from her throat.

She feels her body drop three inches downward. A harsh piece of evidence that Charlotte wasn’t exaggerating. Even without looking or feeling the jolt, she would’ve believed her. Becky sucks up her fear regarding the height and how she’s dangling in front of a massive waterfall. Presumably one of the waterfalls that she called “beautiful,” earlier. What a load of crap, she thinks. She sucks up that fear, her exhaustion, and she gathers enough of it to create synthetic energy. Energy that she’ll use to swing her body to the cliff where Charlotte practically bounces in anxiety. The treasure hunter spots her partner’s nervous posture. How her hands tap against her thighs while turning from the tree, to the rope, back to the tree. A smaller snap is heard. One root lifting from the ground.

Even with her gaining arc, there’s no comfort that comes. Because, with each backswing, she feels the tree loosen more. With every forward swing, it does it again. In part, all it brings is the notion of giving up. The notion of surrendering on her own terms, jumping down into the fluffy trees in hopes that they act as a trampoline. A padded mattress to fall onto, get tangled up in. The cracking, the snapping, the crushing noises coming from the tree’s aged bark make her want to let go, entirely, and simply… close her eyes. Let that be the end.

The only reason she doesn’t is the person who stands atop the cliff. The person who hopes she makes it. The sparkle in ocean eyes says so. It pleads with Becky to keep going, to keep fighting, to stop wasting time. The Irish woman can feel it, too. From where she swings with every ounce of her might, Charlotte’s care floats around her. It’s directed straight at her. Almost hoping that it could physically manifest and pull Becky in, despite all odds set against both of them. By all means, Becky can almost hear her hopes, her prayers sent to the universe.

_“You’ve always gotta pray, even if it’s not to anyone, in particular.”_

The sight pays tribute to her words to the three women, back on the Madagascar mainland. How she proceeded to lecture them on praying to themselves, if need be. The idea still exists right now. She’d be a hypocrite to not follow through, wouldn’t she?

Another foot of distance cleared when the tree leans further. Becky’s swing widens, practically moving thirty or plus feet both ways across the waterfall’s width. With the angle the limb is existing at, the tree is almost fully dangling over the waterfall’s center, from the cliff’s edge. Hanging on by measly roots embedded in the stone’s surface, more than anything. The other, various branches are wholly sloping downwards, now, and the piece of vegetation is on its last leg. It won’t be long now.

Charlotte’s teeth bare together, clenching so heavily that they could shatter upon another drip of angst. Realistically, she doesn’t care. Her well-being isn’t what she’s paying attention to. It’s not what she yearns for, or minds. All that matters is getting Becky to safety. All that matters is watching her partner find her way back onto the cliff. That’s all. She’s had enough instances of watching the redhead’s life hang in the balance.

The following sequence happens within a single breath. Becky hears the telltale, ending crack of the tree. Its splitting, life-ending crunch with splinters flying into the air, and dust puffing out where Charlotte stands. Widened eyes stare at where it’s pulling from, having to back up when the roots lift from the stone beneath her boot. A ripping noise proceeds to fill the air. A tight, hollow zip. It’s all a final shift that expresses what’s on the brink of happening: the tree’s ultimate fate, bound to topple to the ground and lie atop its healthy, green brethren.

All the while, in a last ditch, spiritual attempt, Becky closes her eyes. The terror remains with a tear dripping down the side of her nose.

 _“Please,_ please let me make it.”

Her body flies backward one last time. The gathered inertia then leans her forward. Just as the tree lifts from its base and snaps like a twig, her eyes fly open once more. At the proper interval, her whitened knuckles unhinge and her hands release their grip, launching herself through the air until she’s fingertips away from the ledge.

Fingertips don’t count, though.

Because, as her hands become undone from the rope’s fibers, it leaves her mere inches away from grabbing onto the cliff’s rocky texture. It happens in slow motion, too. Her mouth opening in realization of mistiming the jump. Her eyes widening when they understand, as well. Arms flailing in hopes that she’ll flap herself forward. Legs kicking the air like she’ll propel herself enough to clear the remaining distance. Instead, it all reminds her that she’s made the biggest mistake of her life. The heart within her chest erupts into her throat and she swears she’s about to throw up in mid-air. She knows she’s fucked up. She knows she’s made her final blunder, and she’s seconds away from paying for it. It doesn’t take long to accept her fate, either.

With a silent plea to the universe, her eyes slam shut and she squeezes them tight, retracting her fingertips and curling her fist into a ball. A silent apology to Charlotte follows. An apology for making her misfortune culminate into such an unknown demise when they were _so_ close. So close to finding their friends, so close to making up and confessing as to what’s been on their minds for so long. Becky should’ve done it sooner. She should’ve said her piece when she had the time. She should’ve spoken her love, and spoke it well. No more tongue twisters, no more stammering, no more frustration. Fuck, everything she would’ve said… left unspoken. Left untouched, to fester until it’s gone within the air she falls through.

Or so she thinks.

Turns out, her thoughts are null and void. Despite the inches between her fingertips and the cliff’s underside, she’s caught by desperate hands of the person she’d sent the internal apology to. The person she’d find herself saying sorry to again and again, throughout her everlasting time in the dark clouds above. The person who deserves to, now, hear her piece. Her guardian angel, if the current scenario is any indication. They have time. _God,_ they have more time.

Using her full strength to pull a dangling Becky over the rock’s edge, Charlotte’s teeth grit and a groan exits her throat. Their wet skin feels warm, boiling, due to the situation’s stress. Her dirty blonde hair creates a curtain over her vision, but she doesn’t allow it to disrupt the moment. Realistically, she pulls harder, scraping her boots against the dusty surface and grunting. Simultaneously, the redhead kicks to help ease some of the tension on her partner’s forearms. Once her torso is over the edge, relief finally rushes through her body at the highest speed. She feels tingly, and not as a result of the strain blemishing her limbs from holding onto the rope. It hits her even more when her knees are set to the ground. How she’s still alive, breathing. How she’s made it. All thanks to Charlotte, the person who’s saved her time and time again throughout this venture.

A few feet away, that same person sits on the ground. After she’d set Becky safely onto the stone, she’d fallen onto her butt, drained and off-kilter due to feeling lightheaded with fear. A shaky hand runs through her hair, wiping at the corner of her eyes with the back of her hand.

Both women level their breathing while sitting upon solid ground. They rejoice in the texture beneath their palms, fingertips dragging against it. The historian leans to the side, frown on her face while her mouth is agape. All while consistently taking in deep breaths to fill her lungs.

Becky has to resist the urge to press her forehead to the ground in reunion with it. Then again, with her shuddering posture due to recent events, it would be an expected outcome.

Still, they spend thirty seconds in their respective positions. Internally, their minds catch up to what’s transpired. How Charlotte could’ve essentially been continuing on her own. How she could’ve essentially been sitting here, catatonic, while mourning the redhead. Becky, herself, is having a hard time grasping onto the events. The bridge breaking, the river, the waterfall, the tree snapping. _Surviving._ Even with that survival, having this many brushes with death is certainly getting old. Tiring. Painstaking. All of the above.

Her head shakes as an exhale quakes her chest. A cough follows it, having to clear her throat. Then, Becky turns over and flops onto her back with a quiet thud. Nearby, the historian hears the sound of the other woman grunting when her body hits the stone. Crimson hair slaps across her forehead, the hunter needing to reach up and brush it away with a tiny whimper from moving. Afterwards, brown eyes bore into the sky above. Unblinking. Eventually, a slow head-shake surfaces. Her damp clothing colors the rock beneath, and so does her damp hair. Beside her, limp arms flop onto the rock. The blonde can tell that the sky has mesmerized Becky. Especially judging by the way her chest rises and caves with now-shallow breaths. Additionally, her mouth is opened, sucking in small rounds of hair until she swallows hard and licks her lips.

“It’s official,” the Irish woman clears her throat again. “This is karma.”

Usually, the silly remark would warrant a smile. Internally, Charlotte muses that Becky may be onto something. She’s still staring at the sky, back pressed to the stone as she resembles someone watching the clouds mass. Paying attention to their shapes, and naming them off. In any other circumstance, the historian would grin at the sight. Maybe she’d even blush. Seeing Becky do something so childish, so casual and reflective.

Here, all thoughts and inner musings come to a halt when a rumble of thunder is heard in the distance. Both women turn to its source, toward the east of where they’re rested. The noise is unnerving, Charlotte decides. The impending storm is getting closer. There’s no use in getting caught up in it, whether it’s simple precipitation, a surge of flashes, or something worse. Not tonight. Especially not after what recently happened, and how they both need to recover.

More selfishly, Charlotte wants to spend time with Becky. In light of unfolding events, a bittersweet thought has awakened within the blonde: this island is a deathtrap. Even if they’d narrowly escaped another plausible demise, who knows when the next one will occur. This storm may just be a scapegoat to take refuge somewhere cozy, somewhere solitary with Becky by her side. Admittedly, she doesn’t care. Something tells her the Irish woman wouldn’t mind, either.

Without warning, her hands are placed flatly on the ground, and her weight shifts so she’s standing. Her partner’s backpack is reached for, previously thrown aside, and a scuffling is heard. Charlotte turns her head to see Becky limping back to her feet. It’s followed by a brief stumble, her left knee buckling for a step or two before it’s reinforced. Her body is steadied.

“Come on,” the blonde nods to higher ground. “I’m sure it’ll rain soon.”

She’s mostly turned away before the words even exit her mouth. Not facing Becky enough to detect the conflicted expression shaping her features. The Irish woman’s forehead is creased, lip pouted slightly, and her eyes stare at the back of Charlotte’s head while she walks away. She doesn’t move, nor does she plan to. The historian doesn’t think anything of it, really. Not until Becky speaks up.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you,” the confession stops her from moving. “I mean, I did, in a way, but it wasn’t because I _wanted_ to. It wasn’t the plan. And that’s no better, I━I know,” she stammers as Charlotte slowly turns around, frowning with a squinted gaze. “All I saw was the objective, and it was selfish,” her eyes slam shut at the thought. “God, I’m so selfish,” it’s sunken into a whisper.

It takes a second to process what she’s referring to. Or maybe Charlotte knew, right away, but the shock of finally hearing anything relative to Becky’s tendency to lie is so baffling that she’s stumped. Her jaw is slack, head barely tilted to the side. Until both reactions are erased when she begins to nod. Carefully yet decisively, like she’s been preparing for this conversation. Because, in all sincerity, she has been.

“You are,” Charlotte doesn’t hold back, voice hollow ━ not bitterly, but seriously. “I won’t pretend you’re not. You weren’t fully honest with us, and it’s the same as━”

“━lying,” Becky finishes for her. “I knew you were right all along,” brown eyes flash with genuinity, also pain that she’s been collecting throughout the venture. “You three weren’t the only ones I was lying to, Charlotte. I was lying to myself, too. Not just about this trip, but…”

For the first time, she notices that Becky wants to talk. That she wants to explain her side of things, and what’s lead her to make these sometimes-arrogant choices. Ignorant, more or less. And she doesn’t want to discuss them after being asked, but through her own willpower. She’s opting to open herself up to the blonde. _Finally._ Charlotte can tell what it’s all about, too. What it’s truly about, and what her lying’s root cause is. Something tells her she’s known all along, but with the glimmer in saddened, brown eyes, it’s hard to ignore. It’s hard to pretend doesn’t exist, and hard to abstain from comprehending. It’s this trip’s driving force, quite frankly: redemption. A tinge of mourning, adding onto that.

“You still haven’t come to terms with Paige’s death, have you?”

Tears rush into her eyes at the acknowledgment. Even more so when she lifts her chin to lock eyes with Charlotte. It’s a quick second, however. Not even a beat, or a blink. Not even a breath. It’s a flash of tenderness, a flash of vulnerability that peels her skin backwards and shows the cracks of a weak persona beneath. Becky ducks and laughs sadly, shaking her head in dismay. Regret and self-pity, as per usual.

Feet away, the blonde peers over her shoulder and sees a long rock. A bench-like slab of stone that’s big enough for both of them to be comfortable. Not your average park bench, but it’ll get the job done. Charlotte gives Becky a nod and a tiny, diluted smile, nudging the Irish woman into approving the request. It isn’t long before she complies, walking over with crossed arms as the blonde gets comfortable.

“You two were _really_ close,” it’s more of a statement than a question, Charlotte’s heart aching for her partner once they’re placed with a foot of space between them. “Closer than the three of us initially assumed. I knew she was your best friend, but…”

“She ended up being the family I never had,” her throat grows sore from being choked up. “Like my parents, she was ripped away from me.”

The other woman can tell she’s close to crying. A tear dribbles down her cheek within the gaining second, giving her confirmation. Charlotte wishes she could wipe it away, but she keeps her hands in her lap. It’s another case of allowing the treasure hunter to let this out. To let her grievances and woes rush from her body and release into the air. Maybe then they’ll pester her less, or she’ll be able to live without feeling guilty that Paige can’t do it beside her. She can’t imagine the feeling that Becky endures on a daily basis. She can’t imagine the guts it must take, or the mindset to push the numbness away while pretending she’s alright. If it was up to her, the Irish woman wouldn’t have to deal with it. She’d take it all away, and she’d keep her smiling. Unfortunately, it’s unrealistic. It’s a fantasy, and make-believe. Charlotte knows that she can only do her best to change Becky’s view on the world, following this adventure.

During the silence, Becky grimaces at the ever-tightening grip around her neck. Her inner throat feeling clawed against, held with a vice grip. An adverse side-effect from letting her tears build up, of course. She supposes it’s her own fault. It’s her fault for forcing them back into her body. For refusing to let them spill over and fall onto her river-soaked camo pants. They manage to sneak out here and there, in spite of her efforts. Becky clenches her jaw, a pulsing sensation running up to her temples where the invisible mallets still pound against. The world is unkind, she determines. Actually, she’d determined that a long time ago. A breath exits her nose.

“Maybe I was just never meant to have that family bond with anyone, you know?” a sad laugh matches the ludicrous statement, wiping her eyes.

Charlotte frowns. She’ll be damned if she lets Becky believe that for one second.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

It warrants another chuckle, albeit a disbelieving one. A disagreeing one, at that. Charlotte’s frown intensifies, being so prominent that her forehead creases with deep lines, and the treasure hunter flat-out refuses to look at her. It looks borderline angry. She can feel the brash curiosity from a foot away. Thunder rolls in the distance, beyond the nearby trees.

“Of course you wouldn’t think that,” Becky mutters, and the historian’s body language stiffens further.

She can tell that Charlotte’s taken it as an insult. Maybe, in some way, it really _is_ an insult. She didn’t mean it like that, though. Not one bit. Her chin lifts and she turns to the blonde who wears the same, confused mask of narrowed eyes and a burning, giant question mark. It deserves an explanation. Becky’s tongue wets her lips in thought, gaze drifting away from Charlotte before being able to look at her again. Gradually, her posture softens. Her complexion turns more admirable, too. The solemness remains, however. Left behind with glistening eyes and adoration that’s full of mixed feelings. Jealousy, in fact. Charlotte picks up on it, frown loosening but chest constricting in anticipation of her reasoning.

“You’re… a _sunflower,”_ as she says it, Becky shrugs at the comparison, a shaky chuckle given via confliction. “You see the good in everything because you make yourself look for it. You keep yourself content and warm because you know what life’s about. You know you can’t waste your time here, or spend your days turning your back on the rest of the world. You keep to yourself, and you don’t do things that could potentially put it all on the line,” her eyes lower to the ground in front of them, facing forward. “You just… exist _beautifully.”_

Next to her, Charlotte’s heart swells. Her eyes light up at the Irish woman’s words, no matter how she intended them, or what argument she used them to fuel. No matter the jealousy. Now, she understands her reasoning. She understands what the redhead means, and why it sometimes hurts. Becky has nothing sorted, nothing going for her, whereas she believes Charlotte thrives. Physically, mentally, emotionally. But she’s just as human as Becky is. No matter what, they’re both human.

In turn, she stares at Becky delicately. Her voice is gentle when she reassures the woman that she’s just as inclined to break down, every once in a while. More often than she’d like to admit.

“That doesn’t mean I have everything figured out,” the debate is kind, considerate, but also real. “That doesn’t mean I don’t struggle, or sometimes question why I am the way that I am. We’re all trying to find our way, for one reason or another.”

“I make it no easier on myself,” the answer is monotone. “I’m the opposite of you,” when she turns back to Charlotte, her grin is earnest. “You said it, yourself. I’m…” she swallows hard, a brief struggle ensuing. “All I do is waste time. I can’t stay still. I’ve hidden myself from the rest of the world under this━this facade of enigma,” the stammering returns, her mind going into overdrive before she calms it. “I don’t know how to be any different because this is who I’ve been for years.”

Her remorse is almost touchable, or tasted. She can nearly trace the lines of worry and regret as they afflict Becky’s forehead and around her mouth. That never-disappearing frown. The furrowed eyebrows. Every drop of deep contemplation that shapes her body language into something reserved and closed off. Something temperamental, and touchy. Charlotte can tell, one-hundred percent, that there’s a monkey on the redhead’s back. That she believes she’s cursed, or something is seriously wrong with her. And, although it’s no excuse for what the Irish woman has put her through, nor is it an excuse for what she put Sasha and Bayley through… it’s enough to understand that old habits die hard. Change is difficult for Becky. That’s always been evident. Right now, it’s just starting to show that Becky, herself, has felt ruined by the card she’s been dealt by the universe.

If anything, Charlotte can’t blame her. She can’t point fingers and continuously throw her under the bus. She can’t keep holding things against her. Not now, anyway. Becky may not get a free pass, but she’s made up for things in the smallest ways. She continues to, as well. From now on, they’ll have a clean slate, the historian proclaims. From now on, Becky deserves to be listened to, to be cared for, to be helped through difficult and oftentimes painful growth.

 _“God,”_ an exasperated breath comes out, Becky’s head shaking with cold incredulity. “We were going to retire. Paige and I.”

On the surface, it mimics a plea. Like she’s on the cusp of begging the universe to bring her back. To turn back time. To let her fix things, or alter them. Like she’s blaming herself, above anything. Charlotte picks up on the massive load of self-directed criticism strewn within. Becky’s features are even desperate, lips sealing before she looks up and offers a sorrowful laugh to the sky.

“She wanted this to be our last, big adventure. Hell, she was even talking about scrapping it altogether. Maybe we should’ve. We were just a hair too late.”

The way her voice falters worries Charlotte. Not enough to jump at the chance to interrupt Becky’s overrunning thoughts, but to the point of the historian’s lips parting. The way her voice goes from heightened to hollow as if it’s lost all emotions within such a short time-frame… it’s heartbreaking. Suffocating, in a way. Charlotte looks at her with deep sympathy, knowing the redhead’s mind is predominantly fixated on Paige’s end. That begrudged jailbreak gone wrong. Her third major loss, and the beginning of that depression resurfacing to nip at her ankles. Becky’s head droops, playing with her fingers.

“After I lost her, I…” a breath is taken as her eyes shut. “I tried burying those memories so far down that eventually they regurgitated,” the mutter is given disgustedly, as though there’s a bad taste in her mouth.

“You didn’t want to accept that she’s gone,” Charlotte contributes.

“Something like that,” Becky purses her lips, wiping another tear from her left cheek. “I think, when she left, she took a part of me with her. The rational part of me, I guess we could say,” a short laugh expands her chest. “Sure, I was always a hunter. I loved the thrill, and I still do. Even if it’s become a toxic coping mechanism.”

Becky ticks her jaw during her hesitation, Charlotte watching the way her cheekbones shift.

“But if she had told me with no doubt that she wanted to quit, I would’ve had a reason to, also,” for the first time in minutes, she turns to Charlotte. “Now, she’s gone, and I━I feel like my head is spinning about it,” her eyebrows raise, turning away again. “Years later, imagine that.”

Charlotte stays silent, letting her partner’s infinite admissions sink in. Another rumble of thunder shakes the distanced ground, but the historian doesn’t flinch.

“I’ve obsessed, and I’ve clawed my way back on track to finish this, but I…” it’s interrupted by a gulp, swallowing whatever words she’d thought up but didn’t believe were strong enough to be spoken.

“Do you think she would’ve wanted you to see it through?”

The question catches Becky off-guard. She faces Charlotte, eyes doe-like and misted over with her body language the epitome of fragile. Her mouth is closed completely, a straight line, and she stares into ocean eyes that treat her with delicacy. They wait for an answer. Becky, soon, licks her lips and turns away. With a minor struggle, she hangs her head in a muted wave of disappointment and internal dispute.

“I… I don’t know.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

“I’m not sure about that, either,” Becky confesses without missing a beat.

She doesn’t push it. The only reaction she has is to blink, then worry at her bottom lip. From the looks of it, her partner’s thoughts and woes are getting the best of her. Taking over her mind and holding it hostage. Still, the blonde feels as though she hasn’t been the most helpful in this aspect. It clenches her throat, feeling embarrassed and disappointed in herself. After all this time, she’s wanted to be the shoulder that Becky can cry on. She’s wanted to be her source of comfort, her outlet. All she’s longed for is to help the redhead refresh her health, then move forward. Preferably the both of them, together. And it’s that very reason that Charlotte can’t allow the conversation to fester without at least empathizing and proving that Becky can work on it. No matter how damaged she is, there’s always room to change one’s mindset. No one is too far gone.

“I won’t pretend to know what it feels like to lose someone you’re so close with,” Charlotte is careful with her words, gentle and loving, and Becky lifts her head. “However, I also won’t pretend that I haven’t felt guilty over someone’s death, close to me or not. Even if I know, deep down, that Shayna’s execution wasn’t my fault, sometimes it’s hard to see past that fog.”

Becky swallows hard. The images of Charlotte’s memory float through her mind. The story she’d told as they all sat around the fire. She remembers how awful she felt for the blonde, and how all she wanted was to hug her and never let go. How she wished to cry over the fact that Charlotte hadn’t turned to her for help, even in the face of what they’d gone through before that. Right now, she’s remembering that the historian’s remembrances are no better than her own recollections. Her breath turns shallow until she forces it to normalize.

“No matter what, we have to see past it,” when Becky’s attention returns, Charlotte flashes her a slanted grin. “Otherwise, we’d be on a constant loop that wouldn’t benefit us at all. It’s a loop I can tell you’re stuck on, and I can tell because, before I sat down with myself and stopped ignoring my own misery, I was stuck on the same loop,” her insight is wise, and brown eyes lower. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“I told you what’ll happen if I acknowledge it,” her eyebrows furrow, cheeks puffing out in an exhale before she appears mildly pained. “I… _can’t_ deal with that fallout.”

“Won’t you feel better once it’s over and done with, though?”

“The leap of it is extreme.”

Charlotte thinks about the irony in the statement. She thinks about how before her is a woman who’s fearless in the face of heights and gunfire and all around danger, yet that same woman is referring to a mental leap as an extremity. Letting people in, Becky hints, is an extremity. Letting herself wholly feel, or crack just a little bit. It’s all too much to handle, apparently. According to the treasure hunter, the payoff isn’t worth it, either. Charlotte makes a crestfallen face, shoulders slumping where she sits. In retrospect, she understands Becky’s side of things. She understands her argument, even if the selfish part of her wants to take the Irish woman by the shoulders and shake her until she realizes. That aside, Charlotte understands. You can’t turn your cheek from mental and emotional scarring. It sits there, constantly reminding you. With physical obstacles, at least you can pass them, turn back the other way, or figure out a plan B.

In Charlotte’s silence, Becky finds herself looking back on their first outing together. So, maybe she can’t make it up to herself, or soothe her own, internal tension ━ not yet, anyway ━ but the blonde is sitting right there. Right _here._ Looking at her, too. Hoping for something more, perhaps.

There’s no better time, Becky pokes at herself. Why wait, anyway?

“About what happened years ago…” the sentence’s beginning is overly timid, the historian trying her best not to act surprised by the mention. “Charlotte, I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you then, either,” she looks into her eyes, rawly honest and emotional over it.

Inside, Charlotte wonders how she’s going to react. How she’s going to respond to such deep, important words that have been brewing between them since it happened. _Years_ ago. It’s been a long time coming, and their wounds are so deformed, so deep, that Charlotte is surprised she didn’t grow teary eyed just at the reminder. Just at Becky acknowledging that they have to discuss it. But, here she is, doing just that: bringing it up in hopes that they can finally put it behind them. Charlotte wants that, as well. Even if the conversation may be painful, or bring about another issue.

“I know you didn’t,” she cautiously admits, “but you did. You didn’t even apologize, or… _God,_ you could’ve died, for all I knew,” Becky ducks her head. “Whether or not you wanted to keep me safe, you have this tendency to forget that I want to keep you safe, too,” despite the sharpness in Charlotte’s tone previously, it lightens to the point of her partner lifting her chin again. “This isn’t a one-sided thing. It never was.”

Becky’s lip quivers, but she bites down on it. She refuses to act as though she didn’t cause her own pain. Her own turmoil, both in regards to this and whatever else. What happened back then was out of pure instinct to protect Charlotte, and she’s owned that. She’s admitted to it, even if it hasn’t been accepted. The historian is right, however: Becky never considered that there was a reciprocation of that sentiment. Her tongue rolls behind her teeth for a moment.

“I’m not used to putting myself in other people’s care,” the whisper is small, child-like. “Even with Paige, I…” her mouth opens and closes. “All I ever wanted was to manage myself, and keep to myself. With Paige, I couldn’t do that because her and I spent so much time together, but… with you…” it trails off, nervous.

Charlotte tilts her head to the side, careful when she asks, “What?” with such a soft attitude that Becky wants to melt into it.

“With you, I just can’t,” the confession is fractured, her voice cracking. “I can’t keep to myself, or hide how much I love your care,” Becky continues, looking at a loss, “and I have no explanation for it, which is something I’m not used to. It’s something I never had to deal with before. Knowing that I feel something but I don’t know why, because this isn’t my norm. But it’s been like this since that first time we fought side by side. Those nights we spent…” her lips seal tightly, forcibly so.

“You don’t want to feel that way?”

The blonde’s question is curious but not hurt. It remains soft-spoken and intrigued. Quite frankly, she knows Becky can’t explain herself properly, or that she’s having difficulty doing so. At the same time, Charlotte can also tell that the redhead is so far deep in whatever’s between them. She has to stop herself from smiling at how bashful she appears. How reserved and nervous to say what she’s truly thinking and feeling. Nevertheless, Charlotte waits, and a flash of lightning illuminates the faraway sky.

“No, that’s not…” Becky stops, a sigh deflating her posture. “I guess what I mean is that I don’t want to have to lean on someone else. I don’t want to need someone to care. I want to be fine on my own, and I don’t want to drag anyone down with me. No one deserves my baggage but _me.”_

Similar to earlier, Charlotte’s frown appears. It’s as though Becky peeked out of her shell, just to sprint back in and hide. Like she’d set herself up for rejection, so she scorned her own heart before the historian could.

“Becks…” it’s strained, imploring her to reconsider.

With the nickname, the historian actually twists her body upon the rock, facing Becky and trying to get her to stay exposed. Trying to get her to stay open, and willing to take a chance. To take that leap, even if it’s a gamble, or even if it’s “extreme.” Unfortunately, her partner doesn’t give her much of a chance to clamor for her to change her mind, or to extend the conversation.

“I apologize for what happened, Charlie,” Becky suddenly says, leaving no room to be persuaded. “Back then, and… everything. I sincerely apologize.”

Charlotte wants to respond. She wants to elongate their discussion upon the stone. She wants to coax her into believing that they could capitalize on how she feels. To coax her into knowing that being vulnerable isn’t always a bad thing, and that she deserves to have that “baggage” held for her. At least helped along, or guided. Charlotte would be happy to hold all of it, if she’d ask or insinuate that she’d allow for it.

None of those thoughts manage to be heard, in the end. The pitter-patter of rain hits the stone in front of them. It ends the conversation, instantly. At the small, damp circles splattering against the rock, Becky rolls her neck in distress. It’s tailed by her pinching the bridge of her nose, dealing with a minor, thumping headache between her temples. Charlotte feels for her, but they can’t find themselves out in another storm. Not to end the night. She presses her hands to the edge of their seat, curling around the rough texture and huffing out an exhale while pushing herself to stand.

“Let’s find some shelter before it gets too bad.”

Like before, Charlotte goes to turn around. Unlike last time, she notices Becky’s reluctance to follow. The redhead visibly hesitates, and her partner pauses a few feet away.

“Becky?”

It at least convinces the treasure hunter to stand. She still doesn’t walk away from where they’d be sitting, though. Looking lost, she lingers in place. The rain begins to pick up around them. It’s only sprinkling, but Charlotte can tell that it’ll get worse quicker than they imagine. Judging by the quiet rumbles of thunder in the distance, plus the added flashes of lightning, she has plenty of evidence.

“We need to rescue the others,” when Becky’s mouth opens, she’s staring away.

As though she flat-out refuses to look at Charlotte while saying it. The historian’s mouth turns downward, easing her head forward in a bewildered manner.

“We do, and I already said that,” her confusion is clear. “But we’re not going to find them in the pouring rain. Certainly not in the dark. Besides, if they’re still held hostage at the camp, they have shelter. That militia has a whole encampment running. Tents, awnings, a canteen. The works.”

Becky’s arms cross. Her tongue passes by her teeth, and she still doesn’t look at the woman in front of her. More thunder interrupts, sounded over the white noise of the waterfall.

“I know you’re feeling guilty,” Charlotte gets her attention. “I can see it in your eyes.”

She remembers the line she used on the historian. When they were back, first discovering Libertalia. When Charlotte was still upset with her, rightfully so. This is different, and they both know it. They feel their faces being speckled with raindrops, their previously drying clothes collecting more water. Becky’s limbs feel heavy, and her arms fall to her sides. They sway partly, and her voice is scratchy.

“Shouldn’t I be? Shouldn’t I feel guilty?”

Fresh tears spring into her eyes with stirring desperation. They go unnoticed once they’re blinked away, especially when Charlotte can’t see them through the rain that picks up. The look on Becky’s face is all too reminiscent, however. It’s clear as day, and a mirror image of the look the redhead gave her when they’d narrowly escaped the ruins, years ago. After Becky’s mistake of shifting her foot along the floor, carefree and accidental. She blames herself for something she couldn’t have predicted. Likewise, she does here. No matter what brought them to this point, Becky didn’t ask for their friends to be captured. It’s time she realized that.

“Lacey and Rhea taking them… that wasn’t your fault.”

“But I got them into this,” she begs Charlotte to understand. “They wouldn’t have been here, in harm’s way, if it weren’t for me. I need to go help them.”

Although the other woman had previously missed the watering eyes hidden behind the rain’s subtle mist, she doesn’t miss the quivering of Becky’s lip. The wobbling of it, going from extreme to borderline concealed once the redhead pinches its inside between desperate teeth. Charlotte breathes out through her nostrils. Without second thought, she approaches her brittle partner. The woman who is close to collapsing on the spot with an overdrive goal at redeeming herself by heading out on some foggy rescue mission. The woman who’s shaken to the core by the thought of losing their friends as a sacrifice to her obsessive endeavors.

Charlotte raises her chin a bit and crosses the space in front of them. By the stoic, unreadable expression on her face, Becky wonders if she’s going to be scolded. Perhaps not in its direct form, but lectured about her choices again. Lectured about her drive to do something dangerous in order to achieve what they’ve set out to do. The historian stops when they’re mere feet away, rain beating down against the darkening stone around them. Becky’s breaths are deep, catching up to her when the adrenaline is stuck within her veins yet leaks out from her eyelids. Tears of fire, as they burn against her cheeks. She can’t even hide their paths through the precipitation’s curtain when she’s this close to the blonde. Charlotte sees that she’s crying. The expression ━ or lack thereof ━ on her face doesn’t waver.

Actually, Becky isn’t sure if it does. Because, before she can open her mouth to say something, Charlotte shakes her head and erases the distance between them with a firm hug. An engulfing hug. One that causes the Irish woman to absolutely shudder and her knees to weaken. She’s so stunned that only a shaky gasp comes from her lips, sounding more like an exhale against Charlotte’s shoulder, and it takes her seconds to reciprocate the embrace with arms wrapping around her partner’s waist. Slowly, her body uncoils and untightens from its monstrously stressed state, leaning into the hug and feeling the historian’s warmth envelope her. Her head is cradled against the nape of Charlotte’s neck, being cuddled in place. Becky can even faintly hear her heartbeat, and another tear drips down the side of her nose while turning her head further into sweaty skin. Her nails scrape at the blonde’s tank-top, as well. Reveling in the thought of Charlotte being real. It’s comforting.

“Catching hypothermia won’t help anything,” the smile the historian gives her is considerate and comprehensive, despite Becky not being able to see it.

The words are spoken in Becky’s ear, whispered freely and tenderly. Her voice is soft, and brown eyes tighten shut before they can flutter open again.

“We’ll get back on course at daybreak,” it’s a promise.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she untangles herself from the other woman. She doesn’t back up much, though. A sigh comes, rising and caving her chest with her mouth then opening. Only a cracked sound comes out, no words forming. Without Becky jumping to agree, even when faced by glistening eyes that wait patiently, the rain falls openly around them. It gradually darkens the cliff, coating it with a gloss as puddles form. Despite the impending storm approaching, and despite her mind constructing a solid excuse or reason, Becky doesn’t give up on trying to sway the historian.

“Wouldn’t it be better to quietly infiltrate the camp and find them? Before…” the sentence drops off, not wanting to even relatively imply the worst.

“I think that’s a risk we don’t have to take.”

The treasure hunter’s shoulders slump.

“Sasha can take care of the both of them,” comes the reminder. “She has before.”

Again, no response.

“I promise.”

It’s the tiniest smile that gets Becky to relax herself. Charlotte waits a few seconds, watching Becky search her features for something unknown. Watching her swish around the idea of relenting, of giving up and throwing in the towel.

Ultimately, she knows the blonde has a point. She knows it’s an unnecessary risk, particularly during the storm. It doesn’t ease her guilt, but it’s enough of an argument to get her to accept Charlotte’s perspective. Besides, they could use the rest before the task. God only knows what Lacey and Rhea have up their sleeves.

So, with a small nod, the Irish woman gifts an exhale while bowing her head.

“Okay, you’re right.”

At that, Charlotte nudges her head to the side in a signal for Becky to follow. A small grin on her face while doing so, like she’s silently asking if the redhead is okay. With a curt, tight-lipped smile of her own, Becky begins to walk in the indicated direction, and they head off to find shelter against the gathering storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatta whirlwind, amiright?
> 
> So, we've gotten a lot accomplished here. Maybe even more so than when they spoke in that cave, a few chapters ago. Becky is finally pushing herself to be open and to spill her guts out, and Charlotte is finally releasing her tension and comprehending why Becky is the way that she is: not because of her parents' death, but more so because of Paige's. Her parents' passing may have laid out the groundwork for her shaky decision-making, but Paige's certainly tossed her overboard. She's been lost since she left, and it takes a massive toll on what she thinks she should do/what she isn't sure of.
> 
> Charlotte, on the other hand, has made the decision that, yes, she's still sore about Becky's decisions, but she also understands that she's going to forgive Becky. And that her forgiveness is imminent, especially now that she's shared her side of things. She won't let Becky completely off the hook, and they have a lot to build, but she wants to take a leap that'll get them moving faster. She's only human, in the end, even if a lot of us disagree with how quickly she's wrapped her mind around this. Not a spoiler, but something obvious: she's loved Becky since the beginning, but now she's come to terms with it, and she's going to make it known.
> 
> With that said, next chapter is probably going to be just as long, and might I remind everyone to check the rating of this fic before you read it. It'll be my last update before I break again, gather myself, and we head into relatively the final stretch. (I say relatively because there may be another break, I don't know). But, fear not; there are plenty of chapters to come. Baysha, too. More 4HW interactions. I'd never leave you hanging without those. And, obviously, Charlynch. 
> 
> Thank you for reading again! Hope I continue to live up to your expectations.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another dinosaur of a chapter coming at you today... 
> 
> ...I don't have much else to say. I s'pose this is a break in the action, so to speak. Island be damned, really.

MON., 10:04 P.M.

* * *

An orange glow surrounds them. The crackling of a kindled fire echoing between the cave walls. Interrupting its normal, white noise delivered by the compact waterfall dropping through its back ceiling, and the trickling from its wall-to-wall creek. Even the outside rain is drown out, accompanied by intermittent thunder and lightning.

First and foremost, above its virtually calming appeal, the two women enjoy the warmth the fire brings. An accompanied sense of comfort and belonging. Also erasing their metal wounds from the past day, like everything they’d endured to get where they are. Everything they’d broken through, and accomplished. Becky would argue that perhaps those accomplishments pale in comparison to the fuck-ups she’s dealt throughout the past hours. If she voiced it, Charlotte would still debate her. Again: sure, a lot is the Irish woman’s fault, but we all mess up. We all lie sometimes, some more than others.

Either way, as the redhead nurtures the fire with a long branch used as a poker, she knows they have to leave their grievances behind. Or at least leave them at the cave’s threshold. Her hand grips the wood with caked fungi on its handle, shoving over a thicker log confined by the rounded stones. Embers fly upward, a smoky mushroom going with it until it disperses in the moist air.

Becky thanks the universe ━ for once ━ on the grounds of allowing them to find such a beautiful cave to spend the night in. A cave with a natural vent so the fire’s remnants can filter out instead of suffocating them or blinding their eyes. A cave with clean water in the back, and coming through the ceiling where that smoke floats upwards. A cave, in total, bottomed in a soft, mossy texture that could provide necessary padding for the night ahead. That could provide a better night’s sleep than yesterday’s shelter with a bumpy, rock ground.

In a broader sense, the space is lengthy. Roomy, that is. Resembling a massive, hollowed-out boulder with a compact opening, smooth sides, and a far end containing a rock wall that blocks the stream and waterfalls’ view. It catches its noise, as a bonus feature, causing the echo to swirl the waterfalls’ sound less than one would imagine. Size-wise, it could fit a one-bedroom trailer. The ceiling is the height of the average house’s, domed and curved with occasional divots. Overall, it’s quaint, but Becky wouldn’t mind residing in it for another day or so. Something tells her that Charlotte wouldn’t, either. Especially with the view they’re gifted, as it’s nearly on the edge of a cliff just a few yards above the treeline. Overlooking the expansive horizon of greens and yellows. It’ll be beautiful at sunrise.

Brown eyes peer over the historian’s shoulder, peeking at what page she’s on. Her wandering gaze catches Charlotte’s notice, like she could feel it burning against her skin. A shaky laugh snakes out from between her lips without diverting her attention from the page. Clear-cut amazement strewn within the sound that’s backed by the fire’s crackling.

“Becky, these are incredible,” even with acknowledgment of being the hunter’s subject of absorption, her eyes still don’t tear away from the pages of the journal in her lap. “How do you do these so quickly?”

Delicate fingers trace the paper’s lines. Her pointer finger follows the curve of some of them. The few scribbles, the gentle strokes. All coming in waves, and detailing various aspects of each of Becky’s sketches. Despite being on the fourth page, her jaw remains slack. Just like it was when she first acquired a glimpse at the initial depiction. Becky licks her lips, watching how carefully Charlotte handles her illustrations. Her journal, moreover. The one object she never fails to take on her ventures. It’s clear to Becky that her partner understands how valuable and important it is. As if it’s a part of the treasure hunter, herself.

Becky leans back with her arms outstretched behind her, staying cross-legged like Charlotte is. She lounges backwards, sighing at the question with a silly grin coming to fruition.

“I may or may not add things when you’re not lookin’,” it morphs into a smirk.

Her position is altered when she reaches forward as much as she can, pointing to the new page that Charlotte flips to: a sketch of the treeline, located north of the cave they shared with Sasha and Bayley following the wreckage.

“That one I finished in the moment. No adding required,” she narrates. “You three were gettin’ ready for bed, and I couldn’t forget the scenery. Even though it was dark, by then.”

“I remember it,” Charlotte beams, twisting her torso to look down at her. “This little broken tree right here,” she moves the book so Becky can see where she’s pointing, grinning bigger. “It was the only thing askew in that whole clump of forest.”

 _“‘Askew,’”_ the term’s repeated beneath her breath. “A historian’s vocabulary, for sure,” her playful side makes another appearance ━ one of many since they’ve been relaxing.

Nonetheless, Charlotte shoots her a pointed look. One that makes Becky seal her lips before the historian is facing away again.

Quickly, the blonde’s mind is mesmerized by the journal cradled in her hands. She feels its outside texture against her fingertips and her palms, sometimes rubbing against it just to know it’s real. Just to understand that Becky willingly trusted her with something so vital to her persona. Even if the redhead, herself, doesn’t look at it as unbelievably imperative to digest, it’s been on Charlotte’s mind constantly. Getting to know her partner through the simplest things. What she likes, what she doesn’t. How she sees things, beyond anything else.

Here, Charlotte can gauge Becky’s personality. Whether or not she had a grasp on her normal attitude prior, this gives the historian something different. Something more complex. Like the way Becky shapes her outlines. Not smooth, yet not overly sharp in an angry sense. Not frantic, either. Overall, her lines aren’t clean, but it’s obviously the woman’s artistic identity. For every sketch, there are various areas where she presses deeper, then softer. Where she wants more ink to flow, then less. There’s a diligence about it. A dependence, even. Becky drew these to match the way she saw them. For example, the water wheel from the globe chamber is prominent against a black, shadowy outline. A portrayed “Behold!” given off by how it’s highlighted. It’s not round, either, or connected. It’s fragmented, like a stained-glass portrait. Even with patches of dampness that bled the pen in an assortment of areas, it’s all pristine and genuine. A real picture. A tangible memory, almost.

Charlotte can’t help but smile at it. Both the idea of tracing the lines of Becky’s thoughts, but also at the fact that she can’t help but grow emotional about it. After everything they’ve gone through today, it’s the most serene thing. It’s incredible, being able to share this moment with the Irish woman.

Everything since they’ve stumbled upon the cave has been nothing short of an experience. Not as calming, not as enjoyable at various parts, but still an experience. With Becky, it always is.

As the rain was beating down against the precarious stone and foliage, gaining speed and mass against their dampening clothes and hair, the two women rushed to find shelter. They weren’t frightened, nor were they desperately searching, but they had to find somewhere to stay before the lightning approached closer. Higher ground was their best bet, and it was an agreed notion as they began to climb a rockwall side by side. It wasn’t long before they found the cave. In fact, once they stood atop the rockwall’s ledge, it was located a good, ten yards west. On its side stood a handful of bountiful trees, almost completely untouched by the precipitation. Becky didn’t waste time, pulling off branches and breaking them in half, gathering enough wood to keep their impending fire roaring for hours upon hours. Through the night, if they wanted.

Inside the cave, they found that it was mossy enough to provide comfort they hadn’t been gifted with, the night before. A lush, green squishiness that was clean enough to sleep atop. Not as nice as a mattress, but it’d do. Especially considering the aching of their bodies. It was a no-contest in terms of claiming the vacant shelter, truly. Once they saw its mouth, how the inside was clean, the two shared a mirrored nod and entered. Becky pushed the pile of wood inside, and created a stone circle to keep their fire held within. In the meantime, Charlotte wandered further into the space and smiled at what she saw: a small creek running through the back end, entering through one wall and back out the other, all while more water fell into the space from a waterfall. Not large enough to be overly noisy, but enough to create the spray of a standardized shower.

Within minutes, it would prove useful. As Becky tended to the fire, Charlotte took her turn cleaning herself off within the waterfall. Slipping off her boots, washing her feet. Soaking her hair free of mud, wiping the dirt and soot from her arms, shoulders, and neck. Overall freshening up from the day’s worth of sweat she had acquired. It left her feeling refreshed, particularly once she shed herself of her damp tank-top in order to wash herself a bit further. Once finished, it was pulled back on, all while hidden behind the stone blockade that separated herself from the other woman. Charlotte peered over her shoulder, at the time. Wondering if Becky was looking at her. Part of her wished she would, but the historian sealed her lips at the idea. She rolled her eyes, too.

Becky took her turn in the makeshift shower, afterwards. The fire warmed Charlotte up, during her time of being alone. Her tank-top dried little by little, and it still does as she flips another page of the redhead’s journal. The water had been cold, before that. Chilling their skin and creating goosebumps along it. They’re sure that, once the fire dies, they’ll be freezing. The rain outside the cave, misting into the mouth of it, doesn’t help a damn.

A rumble of thunder rolls through again, Charlotte trying to ignore it, looking past the damp tips of her hair that dangle in front of her face.

After they’d showered and gotten situated by the fire, Charlotte remembers Becky sitting next to her. Fresh and clean, smiling cheekily with wet hair, braid still intact, and barren of her tactical vest that rests nearby. Their boots reside in a row near the stream, ready to be walked in tomorrow. At Becky’s childish nature, the historian couldn’t help but smile back. It ended shortly, however. She knew what came next wouldn’t be as fun, especially once she showed the antibiotic ointment to Becky. It was given an immediate frown, the redhead trying her hardest to brush off the request.

_“I’m not asking.”_

Charlotte’s words were less forced than they were back when she’d first tended to the wounds. When she first spoke them about Becky’s history with Rhea and Lacey. They were nicer, more understanding, but still unmoved. The treasure hunter relented, nodding with a forced sigh.

She was ultimately surprised, though. Before Charlotte tended to her forehead, she initially checked the lip wound. Despite its healing process being evident, she studied it. They both knew she didn’t have to. Becky didn’t mention it as the pad of her thumb rubbed along the area sweetly, giving it a slanted grin that spoke an enormous amount of apologies. Like she blamed herself for it, or would willingly fight that so-called karma for hurting her. Her partner waited. The gentle fingertips shifted down to below her chin, lifting it a fraction, Charlotte having to kneel to get a better look at the Irish woman’s forehead. A tiny dollop of ointment was squeezed onto her fingers, leaning closer and closer so she was eye-level with the wound.

Their proximity was intoxicating, and Becky tried her hardest to look away. Even more so once the blonde was eased back downward and they were face to face. That time, the treasure hunter couldn’t stop herself from gulping. Charlotte saw. In fact, Becky is sure she decided to play into the strengthening nerves a little more. Kind fingertips drifted down the redhead’s face and cupped her jaw, cradling scratched cheeks as if she was making sure to memorize every feature. Her thumbs rubbed along Becky’s jawline on both sides of her face, Charlotte sporting the shyest grin as her partner held her breath. Once the historian’s gaze traveled to the scuff blemishing her right cheek, the same, cautious thumb brushed over it. Becky didn’t wince. There was only an acute sense of pain, though overrun by the moment’s intimacy.

It only reminded the redhead of what’s been happening around them. How she’s hardly deserving of someone so caring as Charlotte. She’s gotten better at believing that she’ll be forgiven, in time. She swears she has. But, then again, her mindset poked at her to break their silent conversation. To stop the both of them from getting sucked into it before Charlotte did something on a whim.

She cleared her throat, and both women eased themselves away to add distance between them. Awkwardness ensued, although Charlotte’s smile remained.

Becky didn’t delve too far into her mental acrobatics. Instead, she decided to focus on keeping them taken care of for the night ahead. After a short dig through her dried backpack, she tossed a granola bar to Charlotte, flatly joking, _“Not much of a dinner, but it’ll have to do.”_

It was accepted with a hum, and they ate in silence. As an after-dinner ritual, Becky shared her lip balm and hand cream with her partner. When she covered her own lip with it, she grimaced. Charlotte made a tutting sound with her tongue against her teeth, feeling secondhand pain for the action. Still, they used the products with care, and a subtle scent of cleanliness filled the air. It was a nice change, taking into account everything else they’ve come into contact with throughout the past day.

_“So, your journal survived?”_

Charlotte’s voice caught Becky off-guard. She looked back to see that her journal had spilled from her bag once she tossed the hand cream and lip balm into its opened compartment. She faced the historian again, not giving in so quickly. A smirk curved her mouth, eyes squinted in challenge.

 _“Oh, so_ now _you want to know?”_

_“I do,” the confirmation comes with a simple shrug._

_Another few seconds of staring at the blonde keep Becky from rolling over. She squints, pretending to read the woman who waits with raised eyebrows and a hopefulness along her complexion. With a flat hum emanating from her throat, as if she’s given up, Becky stretches along the stone and grabs the journal. It’s presented to Charlotte, all former teasing lifted from her attitude. Now, the historian is presented with acceptance and… love. Features light, eyes sparkling with the dancing flame nearby, thunder sounding in the background and vibrating the stone beneath them._

_Charlotte hesitates, fingertips reaching out before retracting._

_“You’re sure?”_

_“Yeah,” her smile is tender, also knowing and slightly apologetic._

Her grip fastened around its spine, giving Becky a narrowed-eyed gaze of her own until she shook her head to stop herself from joking along when she was suddenly holding something so important. It caused her to pause again, lips parting just barely. Her eyes lifted from the cover, still unopening it, and Becky gave her a tiny nod. A nod that said, “It’s okay.” As if she knew.

The journal quickly captivated her. She became enthralled within the first page of it, previously not knowing what she’d discover. Her mouth fell open at the first illustration: a sketch of the boat they’d be driving to the island with. She must’ve drawn it at sunrise, when she was waiting for everyone else to assemble at the dock. It was a beautiful depiction, too. The line-work, the texture shown throughout. The waves sparkled, somehow. Without color, even. It was all magnificent, and she had to stop herself from letting out a gasp of breath when she dragged her fingers along the motors’ bottom shadow. How the precision was just right, and realistic.

Becky, immediately, fell in love with the way Charlotte reacted to it. Just like she does now, deeper and deeper as the historian’s breathing is shallow. Eyes practically unblinking as she flips from page to page with careful fingers. A beautiful sight. Something she wouldn’t mind seeing every day for the rest of her life. It’s the only thing that’s kept her calm. The first thing she can think of to cause composure in her body for the first time in years. Becky wishes she could thank her, or say something. Tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her she means more than words could ever convey. _Anything._

With a quiet huff, the treasure hunter shakes her head to snap herself out of it. To drop the dopey smile from her face. Her damp hair brushes against her cheeks, and she leans forward to move some of the branches within the fire. Plenty of wood to keep it going for a while, she thinks. Still, Becky has to cross her arms when a waft of air filters into the cave’s mouth. It sends a chill up her spine, and she swears she can see her breath in front of her. Really, it’s only the fire’s smoke.

In spite of her efforts to keep the shudder contained, Charlotte lifts her chin when she sees Becky shiver for the umpteenth time tonight. Her mouth falls into a tight frown, eyebrows knitted together. Until now, she’s been trying her hardest to ignore it. She’s tried her best to keep to herself and not point out the fact that the redhead has been very clearly suffering ever since the river instance, and more so after her indulgence in the natural shower nearby. The air is cold, and the historian admits that. Even with the fire, it’s hard to ignore. Right now, the flames are their only protection against the frigid air. With that said, it can’t ward off everything. That’s displayed in the way Becky leans back on outstretched arms, keeping herself up with crossed legs even though her teeth clack within a tightened jaw. Before she shoves her tongue between those clacking teeth, that is. Charlotte nearly rolls her eyes at the obvious, false bravado, simultaneously remembering how calming her touch was to Becky when they hugged. How the other woman melted into her, and how she instantly slumped. Furthermore, she curled into her body. It’s clear that she needed it.

Lacking notice, her hands close the book with a soft clap. It’s set down beside her, away from the fire, but not slid back into the backpack. Becky eyes her the entire time, curiosity growing as Charlotte looks over her shoulder, then begins to scoot backward. The backpack is soon being adjusted behind her, the redhead presuming that she wishes to get comfortable so she can view more of the sketches, or perhaps fade off into sleep. Her head nods partly, turning back to the dancing flames as Charlotte lies somewhat behind her, legs outstretched past where Becky sits. Their knees are inches away, though, the Irish woman focusing elsewhere. Until she’s spoken to, that is. A lone word that holds a lot of implications:

“Here.”

It’s said delicately. Sweetly. Without hesitance or any trace of conflict. The word comes with a beckon, as well, as Becky turns her torso to see Charlotte’s arms vaguely open. Inviting her in. Inviting her closer, against her body. At least, Becky thinks that’s what it means. She’s not positive, actually. Her mouth falls into a confused frown.

“What?”

 _“Come_ here.”

The request is unmistakable now. This time, the blonde’s offer is accompanied by a light smile. The faint curve of her lips, their corners turned upward with a knowingness about her invitation. As Becky continues to stare at her, blinks being next to none, Charlotte’s open arms begin to falter. Her smile doesn’t, however. But, when her motives are still poked at, still picked apart, she decides to lightheartedly roll her eyes. She should’ve known that it’d seem odd to the other woman. She should’ve known it would be out of nowhere, considering how hot and cold they’d been for a while. Pushing every problem aside, though, she’s always wanted to be close to Becky. This just gives her a valid excuse. A small nudge to act upon her ulterior motives.

Orange-lit, brown eyes bore into her own, silently asking what’s going on and what she’s asking. Even though Becky knows, she wants confirmation. Honestly, even if she acquired the sought-after confirmation, she’s not sure if she’d accept it. She doesn’t think she deserves it, or━

“You were in that river longer than I was, plus the water from back there,” Charlotte’s voice is a bit pointed, however only because she senses Becky’s reluctance. “I can tell you’re freezing. You’ve been shivering for a while. You just think I haven’t noticed,” her gaze narrows partly, and her partner’s head ducks.

It doesn’t stay that way for too long. Becky quickly recovers, dragging her tongue along her teeth with her mouth closed. Jaw shifted, pushed forward as her lips finally part. Her eyes follow the flames, initially not knowing how to respond until she uses an excuse of her own. One that keeps them apart. A paper-thin cover-up that Charlotte unveils as it’s spoken.

“We have a fire going,” it’s matter-of-factly, monotone ━ not in a chilling, dreadful way, but merely to hide her growing insecurities and the cracks in her persona.

“The fire can only do so much.”

More apprehension follows, backgrounded by the outside thunder. Becky nips at her inner cheek, looking at the fire. She wonders if she should just explain herself. If she should get this conversation over with, sooner rather than later. It’s not that she wants to reject Charlotte. That’s not what she’s trying to do, at all. At the same time, the Irish woman rejects herself. She rejects the idea that someone as sweet and as beautiful as the blonde could willingly open herself up, push aside everything Becky’s thrown at her for the sake of easing her shivering body. Becky would never force the historian to lock that upset and plausible hurt in a box for selfish reasons. She’s done being selfish.

“Come on,” with the treasure hunter’s mind trying its hardest to keep up a solid front, Charlotte’s charitable and airy tone proves to be trouble for it ━ added to the unshown pout within the plea.

Against her better judgement, Becky turns back to look at Charlotte. Shining, ocean eyes stare up at her. Accompanied by that never-disappearing, convincing smile that somewhat glosses with the lip balm coating her mouth. She looks so, _so_ inviting. So welcoming, and almost wanting. Hoping, even. Becky thinks it’s too good to be true. Naturally, that means it is.

“Charlotte, you don’t have to.”

Her smile falters, but it’s still hidden within her eyes. They glisten, and Charlotte seemingly waits for an explanation. It’s a portrayal that tells Becky she’s started the conversation she was dreading, even if she didn’t mean to. Now, she’ll have to explain what’s on her mind. Why she basically refuses to accept comfort, or let herself be warmed by awaiting arms. Why she’s arguably rejecting the woman who lies there, expecting Becky to change her mind and just shut up for once. Expecting her to relent, to join and to curl up into a tall body that’s bound to keep her safe from whatever the universe throws at them.

Becky looks at the inch-worth of stone between their bodies, ticking her jaw a time or two. A strike of lightning seeps a few feet into the cave while she pushes herself upward so she can sit straight. Attentively, or professionally. So she can explain herself without coming off as passive, or indifferent. Her palms are placed against the cave floor afterwards, twisting her body so she can face the blonde who remains lying down. Until she leans herself upward on her elbows, mimicking how her partner had been resting prior. Like she wants to keep as close as she can.

At first, with an unhinged mouth and a slack tongue that refuses to speak, Becky simply plays with her hands in her lap. She picks at her skin, plays with her nails, and overall ignores the elephant in the room. For another thirty seconds, this continues. Charlotte waits, not interrupting her thoughts or scratching to force Becky into something she doesn’t want. She’d never.

“I know you’re still upset with me,” it spills from between Becky’s lips before her eyes raise. “And━and that’s valid,” when they do lift to meet Charlotte’s, the rapid defense is given ━ even with a posture that partially jumps. “I’m not saying it’s not. It’s just…” her lips rub together, “I don’t want you to do anything to comfort me. I mean, I don’t want you pushing away your hurt to make sure I’m taken care of. Don’t get me wrong, the hug… I… thank you,” she trips over her words. “I needed it. But…”

Charlotte’s response to the run-on explanation is simple, unspoken: she tilts her head to the side, eyes still watchful, listening to Becky’s ramblings without hindering her thought-process.

“I know you want to keep me safe, too,” she continues. “But, right now, put yourself first. Please.”

Once the whispered, begging words are between them, Charlotte exhales, then pushes herself upward so she can match her partner’s position. It’s a benign thing, the redhead thinks. Because of that, Becky believes that’s the end of the conversation. She believes that the historian will just nod and enjoy the fire without further question. Even as they’re facing each other, knees brushing past one another like their thighs fit perfectly with them both cross-legged, no words are exchanged. There’s no smile on the blonde’s face anymore. Their glances aren’t shared, either. Not when Becky tries to look elsewhere as Charlotte situates herself until she’s permanently settled, unmoving.

As her fidgeting stops and the redhead feels their legs brushing past one another, that’s when she gets the courage to meet a loving gaze staring at her. It almost makes her forehead crease at how prominent the adoration is. Sparkling eyes, a faint grin twitching Charlotte’s lips upward until it’s shyly diminished. All of it proves how interested she is, and how dedicated. Becky’s breath halts.

It’s short-lived, realistically. Her breath is released when Charlotte slowly reaches up and pushes a strand of crimson hair behind her ear. A sensual motion. A moment of deliberacy that has traces of both history and present-day intentions. It doesn’t stop there, either. As the Irish woman’s throat bobs in nervousness, Charlotte drags the backs of her fingers down her cheek, gradually moving to rub her thumb against the soft skin beneath its pad. The sensation makes Becky want to inhale sharply. Somehow, she manages to hold it in. Even when it feels like its own breed of flame against her cheek. One that she wishes to melt into, or enjoy repeatedly.

Presently, she can hardly breathe. She can’t move, come to think of it. Her hands lie in her lap, still and frigid. Careful not to jump, or shake too much. No matter how careful she’s been, Charlotte can see how she’s subtly reacting. How she stops breathing, how her throat clenches, how her lips seal tightly before she eases them looser so it doesn’t seem too done-for. It earns another smile, this one mixing with a tiny smirk. Becky catches it. In fact, that smirk is the reason she’s able to force out the tailing question. “Force” being the operative word.

“What are you doing?”

The woman’s hand calmly drops from her face, falling into her own lap. She decides that she’ll have to explain herself without physically comforting either of them. For now, at least. She inhales, licking her lips before staring into curious, brown eyes.

“Putting myself first.”

It’s simply stated. Straight to the point. It’s also genuine, and decisive. Unwavering, like she’d been thinking about it before. If you were to ask Charlotte, she had been. For the extent of their relaxation within the cave, her mind’s been on overdrive about Becky. Running through the events that lead them here, spanning years back. Right now, she’s traveling into the mindset of acceptance. She knows what happened. She knows a lot of it wasn’t the best, nor the safest in some areas.

At the same time, it wasn’t just growth on Becky’s part, or her own part, but their collective part. They’d been nurturing a relationship between the two of them, whether or not they knew it. They broke some pieces of each other, and picked them up. Glued them together, little by little. Charlotte sees the aspects of Becky that she’s changed, and she’s begun to notice the parts of herself that the redhead changed within her. It’s comforting. To know that they’re in it together, in spite of what’s happened. Which, of course, doesn’t erase Charlotte’s irritation. It doesn’t erase that Becky has lied, that she’s done some things that the historian would prefer she hadn’t. But, at the end of the day, she knows that it’s propelled them forward. They’ll be stronger, in time. Tonight just so happens to be the night she’s started to accept it.

Charlotte internally muses that maybe it’s all of the various, life-or-death situations. Perhaps she doesn’t want to lose any more chances with Becky. Like she’s declared before: it’s all or nothing here. Now or never. That sort of thing, she decides.

Becky sits nearby, silently questioning the statement. Charlotte detects her swirling inquisitions. The unspoken yet noticeable question mark floating above her head like a cartoon character. It’s endearing, but Charlotte has to wipe the tiny smile from her face. Her cheeks feel warm, though she isn’t sure if it’s from the fire or from blushing. A deep breath fills her lungs as she rubs her lips together. As she finishes her round of refocusing, her gaze lifts to meet the hunter’s.

“I am still upset with you,” she confesses, confirming with sheer honesty, “but it’s not about the lying anymore. In a way, maybe, but… it’s more so because you harbored all of this pain━all of these memories━and just let it fester without allowing anyone to help,” her eyes are pleading, and it makes Becky bow her head. “Without letting me in when I’ve risked so much for you,” Charlotte leans forward a fraction, getting the other woman to look at her again. “Even if I _couldn’t_ help, you still made that choice for me. You still made sure I couldn’t even try.”

“It’s my burden to bear.”

“But you don’t have to bear it alone,” her voice cracks, although it’s quiet.

“I’d never ask you to help me carry that weight,” Becky shakes her head, albeit barely. “I told you, no one deserves my baggage but me.”

“I know you wouldn’t ask,” ocean eyes twinkle, pausing before stating, “and that’s the reason why I’m willing to forgive you.”

The other woman’s teeth gently clack together. Not in a shiver, but due to having no rebuttal. There’s so much she wants to say, but so little knowledge of how to explain herself. In all honesty, nowadays, it feels like she’s spiting herself. Actually, she knows she’s spiting herself. She knows that, when it comes down to it, Charlotte is _right there._ She’s right there waiting patiently, with the most tender look on her face that’s a mixture of composure and love. Pure love. Love that’s directed at Becky, no matter what she’s pulled in recent hours or in the past. Who can pass that up? Who can shake their head at that, even if they’re angry with themselves? Really, she’s not sure, but she knows she’s an idiot for it.

When Becky doesn’t show any signs of contributing to the conversation ━ not yet, at least ━ Charlotte takes it upon herself to distract both of them. A strand of Becky’s damp hair is nimbly taken between her fingers, toying with it as frail eyes flicker to the historian’s lips before she forcibly looks away. Charlotte doesn’t catch it.

“It’s not a case of anyone deserving your baggage,” the blonde’s voice is wise, careful and ready to prove to Becky that everyone needs affection at some point, and their eyes meet. “It’s a case of you loosening your grip on it just enough so someone can willingly help you carry it.”

Charlotte can tell her partner is trying not to budge. She can almost feel the wall she’s scrambling to build on a whim. Especially shown in the way she shifts her jaw, and refuses to look into her eyes again. Each time Becky does, she crumbles a little further. Still, Charlotte doesn’t give up. She refuses, this time. Her hand is placed back in her own lap, and her lips rub together a tad more. Her head bows, too. Once she lifts her chin, however, she’s looking at Becky through the lids of her eyes, and her head is tilted at the most minute angle.

“I was wrong when I said you hadn’t changed,” there’s a random sadness in her voice ━ a certain guilt that makes Becky frown instantly. “Maybe you’re still that hotheaded asshole I met years ago, but you’ve grown,” it alters into a watery smile, this time full and adoring. “You don’t let it show often, but you did, and that counts for a lot.”

The other woman’s head shakes gingerly.

“You sound like you’re apologizing and you shouldn’t.”

“Listen to me,” Charlotte whispers with strained exhaustion about it, taking Becky’s hand between both of hers and cradling it in her lap, causing the redhead to fall silent. “I shouldn’t have been looking for the first sign of trouble with you just because of what happened years ago. I kept looking for a reason to stay resentful. I didn’t want to admit that you’re able to change. But you’ve forced me to admit it.”

In front of her, Becky’s forehead creases in conflict. She goes to lower her head in dismissal of her partner’s proclamations, but Charlotte doesn’t let her. The grip on the Irish woman’s hand turns desperate. Imploring her to listen.

“You are so loved,” it’s said via a shaky laugh. “By all of us. After everything you’ve been through, you are so goddamn loved.”

Her sincerity warrants a bundle of tears to form at the bottom of Becky’s eyelids. Also, the wobbling of her lip, on the brink of letting her emotions spill. Charlotte sees. Her heart leaps into her throat ━ more than it had been ━ and she wants to reach forward to wipe the tears from fragile eyes. In actuality, she opts to make Becky laugh, instead. Laughter is the best medicine, after all.

“No matter what you possibly pull, no matter what stupid decision you’re _bound_ to make, you’ll still be loved.”

She’s successful. Becky laughs, her chest shaking as her cheeks round fully until she wipes a just-starting path of water from the side of her nose. Charlotte’s face glows from the orange fire, eyes lit up by its color as she watches Becky gather herself. Her thumb rubs against Becky’s, the redhead nibbling her lower lip once she feels it. She thinks to herself, face going through a few stages of self-directed wonderance until she decides to confess about something that’s been on her mind for a while: her reason for pushing her feelings into the back of her skull. Feelings about Charlotte, specifically. It’s something she’s recently come to terms with, after seeing the historian again. Once everything resurfaced, she was a goner and she knew it. Although, she’d be damned if she acted upon those feelings. In the end, she always did her best to ignore them. Now, with Charlotte looking at her like _that,_ with Charlotte speaking so softly, so sweetly, so earnestly... Becky knows she has to give back.

“I’m not good with my feelings. We’ve already covered that,” the Irish woman gives a weaker laugh, turning away. “Handling emotions… it’s not my strong suit, even if I _do_ try,” her palm turns upward within Charlotte’s grasp, its lines being traced by careful fingers. “I can climb rock walls and swing from cliff to cliff all day, but… feelings are scarier. You can’t see them, you can’t fight them. They’re not obstacles to conquer. They linger, even when you’re ignoring them.”

Charlotte blinks at the comparison. She looks up at Becky’s face, seeing the woman stare at the cave’s wall. Meanwhile, she proceeds to play with the treasure hunter’s fingers.

“You don’t know what’s coming, or what could possibly happen with them,” the analogy is expanded upon, voice low. “At least, with climbing, you either successfully make it up, or the wall crumbles and you fall,” her shoulders tighten, then slump. “There are endless possibilities with letting your mind be open. Or your heart.”

At the final, three words, Becky’s demeanor turns shades of vulnerable. Quiet and shy. An unspoken plea with Charlotte to take it easy on her. To tend to her with care. The blonde stares into her eyes, accepting the explanation. She doesn’t keep herself from saying something of her own, hoping to change Becky’s mind or at least provide a second perspective. A more-intricate one, or an optimistic one.

“Those possibilities aren’t all negative,” Charlotte whispers, eyes doe-like. “If you can’t trust the rest of the world, if you can’t trust _yourself…_ then just trust me.”

Becky seals her lips. Not heavily, but enough to keep her breath held captive.

“I can tell you now, Becks,” she speaks smoothly, with a hint of persuasion, “you open your heart to me, stop lying and show me you’re actually in it, and you won’t feel that wall crumble.”

“No one can promise that,” the response is hoarse, her throat growing sore from keeping herself so knotted up and closed off ━ her heart begging her mind to believe everything that Charlotte says.

“I can,” the statement leaves no room for disagreement. “I’ll help you carry whatever baggage you claim to have.”

No response.

Unlike before, Charlotte catches the woman’s timid gaze drop to her mouth before evading. It gives her all the confirmation she needs. Through careful movements, she scoots three or four inches closer, lessening their proximity. They’re nearly shoulder to shoulder now, profiles flashing blue with another spurt of lightning. Facing one another. Faces apart by much less space, which Becky calculates using the fire’s orange glow. She swallows hard, but doesn’t move away. Shit, she’d never move away.

“I took this trip with you,” Charlotte practically mouths it. _“For_ you. Take this one for me.”

She sees the wheels turning behind Becky’s eyes. She sees the way her tongue just barely pokes out of her mouth before hiding behind her teeth. The way her eyes periodically drop to lips that aren’t that far away. Charlotte grins again, albeit in a way that’s not shown on her exterior.

With Becky’s hesitance crumbling more and more, the historian reaches up and rubs her thumb along the woman’s lip. Simultaneously, she leans closer, Becky naturally wanting to do the same. Charlotte feels the need to get as close as she can without crossing too many boundaries, too quickly. Not without consent, or reassurance, or confirmation that it’s okay.

It doesn’t stop her from bringing their foreheads together, resting there. For a moment, at least. The gesture is ended when she turns her head slightly, nudging her nose against her partner’s and waiting for a sign that she should continue. Or stop. She notices Becky’s lips part. The shallow breaths she takes in, and how her eyes are fluttering closed. Like she’s trying to move closer, like she’s trying to seal the gap between them with a kiss that finalizes everything they’ve built up to tonight. Charlotte knows she needs another prod. One more blow that takes her walls down. One more hit to her hesitance, or dismissal of how she deserves this. With a fast-beating heart, the blonde drums up her own courage. She feels Becky’s breath on her, flickering eyelashes brushing her skin, and it doesn’t help her thinking.

The proximity is beginning to backfire, but she gives it a shaky smile that’s a tint or several pained. She swallows through her dried throat, mouth opening and licking her bottom lip before she’s able to brush against the Irish woman’s nose again. Convincing her a small amount more before she can get her voice out.

“Please,” she whispers, mouthing it against Becky’s when she speaks, and the redhead shudders at the tickling feeling. “Don’t waste any more time.”

If her alluring words weren’t enough to break her resolve, Charlotte’s lips brushing against hers would’ve accomplished it. Becky nods at the encouragement, the nod being enough to feel movement but not too much to disturb their intimacy. Still, there’s a ten-second window before she gains more bravery to take the leap. To take a scary trip on Charlotte’s behalf. Eventually, she does.

With consistent timidity, her hand drops to the blonde’s thigh as she fully connects their lips.

The kiss is chaste. A peck, sticking their lips together for an elongated beat or two. Once it finishes, another one begins. Again, and again. Drumming up more emotion within their shaking stomachs, their nervous bodies that grow accustomed to the moment. Charlotte’s thumb strokes her cheek, leaning in another time before slowly departing. Re-focusing on each other’s faces proves to be difficult, having to do so using lidded eyes as Becky takes in a sharp breath at the swarming heat. It’s then, looking into sparkling eyes that show trust and overwhelming acceptance, that the treasure hunter feels something clouding her. One more thing to ask about. One more thing to cover before she becomes reacquainted with the historian’s soft lips.

“What if I fuck up again?” she murmurs through displayed apprehension and a tinge of regret, though the question is so voiceless that it’s nearly mouthed.

Charlotte doesn’t back up at all. She doesn’t need to in order to see the guilt overrunning her partner’s features. It’s unnecessary, but she understands her worries. Charlotte needs to remind her that she’s not leaving. She’s not running anymore.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

No time is spent waiting around to lean back in. However, Charlotte is alone in doing it. Becky remains lost in her head for another second. Not long at all, in reality. Kisses are gifted to her bottom lip, across the gash in soft skin with a gentleness about it. A promise that she’ll treat her with care. At the same time, the Irish woman knows her partner is trying to steal her attention back. Trying to get her to stop thinking for the rest of the night. It’s working, too. Becky doesn’t reciprocate, but she rapidly melts into the embrace. She revels in the feeling of both the kisses and the hand framing her face, the thumb tracing along her cheekbone as her heart stirs and beats quicker than usual. She leans into it, allowing herself to.

Enjoyment aside, her throat is caught by the subtle heat in the gesture, trying her hardest to breathe when, suddenly, a laugh exits her lips.

Charlotte pauses her motions, though doesn’t back up. She waits for whatever-it-is that Becky is trying to say, ultimately hearing a joking “We _have_ crossed many bridges…” that very obviously hides her nerves.

She smiles at the other woman’s blatant, inner turmoil in its best form. Becky tries not to look too wisped away. She tries to hide how deeply in a tizzy she feels. How spun around and turned inside out. But she doesn’t have to show it, because Charlotte already knows. That’s why, when their lips are connected fully, pressed together warmly with her hand bringing Becky’s face even closer, she’s not surprised by the whimper that emanates from the redhead’s throat.

What she is surprised about, on the other hand, is how her heart lurches within her chest. How it flips, and beats heavily. How, when Becky leans further into the kiss, her body tingles with a fizzing adrenaline that warms her more than the nearby fire. How her nails gingerly scrape at the redhead’s upper neck to pull her closer, not too heavily but enough to create the same static against her partner’s skin that she feels within her veins.

Meanwhile, their lips stick together against the remnants of lip balm wiped away by each other, Charlotte being careful of Becky’s damaged mouth with slow movements. Although, truly, she’s not sure if the Irish woman would care, at this point. Strongly evident in the way Becky’s nails grip the thigh of clad, blue jeans against the historian’s skin. Additionally in the way she follows the blonde once she goes to back up to catch her breath. Another three, elongated pecks are shared between already-bruising lips and wanting mouths. Their eyes flutter open, afterwards.

It’s merely enough to look at each other. To see their faces colored with enthrallment and affection. The mental warmth between them. Their _connection._ The weight of it is granted a pair of bashful smiles. Also the knowledge that they’ve rather quickly heated up. Within those appearances, those lidded eyes, neither woman holds a trace of regret. No hint of backpedaling, or wishing to stop. Only flashes of not wanting to waste any more time. They’ve spent too much of it dancing around their feelings, dancing around what they could’ve been doing all along. Now, they finally have a moment alone. A moment of peace before the big fight. A moment before their world can go to shit when they inevitably head approximately fifteen minutes north until they barge into New Devon.

Starting with tonight, they’ll stop wasting their time, and they’ll start acting upon what they feel. Even with Becky’s dwindling apprehension looming, Charlotte will make sure to ease those worries ━ those feelings of self-doubt ━ before taking another step further.

They both deserve it.

Charlotte gives her a more visible smile than before. Becky’s eyes continuously drop to her mouth, time and time again. Though, once the historian’s hand falls from her cheek and she begins to scoot backwards, toward the backpack, Becky can’t help but tilt her head in mild curiosity. Not much of it, but it’s certainly there. The blonde doesn’t wipe the content expression away from her features, nor the blush that feels permanent against her cheeks. A result of both her cycling thoughts and the nearby fire.

Similar to earlier, Charlotte gets comfortable upon the bag used as a makeshift pillow, waiting for Becky to join her. Much to the historian’s satisfaction, the redhead doesn’t hesitate to approach. However, she can tell that the treasure hunter is bound to lie next to her. Bound to keep the distance between them, or provide Charlotte with as much room as she wishes. If you were to ask her, she’d wish for none. Actually, no asking necessary; she doesn’t wait around to make it known.

With a subtle grunt extracted from Becky, she’s pulled on top of the other woman who chuckles at her reaction. At first, her partner shares in the comedy of it, brushing her own hair behind her ear as they regain an eye-level position that’s the least bit separated. Aside from three or four inches, that is. Charlotte studies her features as Becky’s elbows dig into the ground on either side of her head, knees straddling her right thigh. Hovering above her, head tilted. Pressed to the mossy stone, Charlotte has to refrain from pulling the other woman flush against her body. Instead, she focuses elsewhere, eyes flickering to the forever-subsiding red mark across Becky’s throat. Using the fire’s light, she can faintly make out its shape. Its odd-colored blotches in specific areas. Not too prominent, but still not gone. Still not erased.

Her thumb reaches toward the skin of her neck, rubbing it against the marking. It drags far and wide, having to hold herself back from frowning at the memories that must lie beneath. Becky hinders her breath with her eyes lowering slightly. She knows what Charlotte is thinking about. She knows her stomach is swirling with regret that she shouldn’t have. Her lips part, wanting to speak or comfort the blonde about it. Nothing comes out as a spurt of thunder shakes the cave, introducing another flash of lightning.

“Will I ever know what happened?” the whisper is pained, also holding understanding.

Understanding that proclaims she’d be okay if she didn’t, yet still yearns for the information. Even if it’ll hurt both of them, in the process.

“Bayley saved me,” she answers, albeit caught in her thoughts. “A soldier was choking me with his arm, and…” the inhale is gradual, her sentence resting unfinished.

Charlotte’s heart falls. She gets what she meant to say, or was beginning to: Becky thought that was the end. Staring into brown eyes, she can see it. Remorse floods into her veins, lathering the previous adrenaline while it lingers, waiting to resurface. She gives the woman above her a sad look, a sheer combination of guilt and regret.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, I know, but,” a few strands of red hair fall out from behind Becky’s ear, Charlotte moving her hand to gently tuck them back in place, “I still should’ve been there. To prevent it. I’m sorry.”

Becky shakes her head. This makes Charlotte give her a breathy laugh. It’s no shock that the hunter isn’t close to accepting her apology anytime soon. Or ever, for that matter. From Charlotte’s perspective, sure, it’s not her fault, but she still feels sorry. She still feels contrite for being so afraid for her own life that she didn’t bother to protect Becky or think about what could happen if they split up. The first instance of gunfire on this island should’ve been incentive enough to stick together in the face of anything. Becky leaving her did no good, the first time, so why is Charlotte surprised that it didn’t work out, the second? Her throat pounds, eyes gaining more blue color than green. More sorrow, and more shades of melancholy.

In fact, there’s such a mental strive to mend Becky’s wound. At least to contradict its pain with gentility and tenderness. Something that reminds Becky that the world isn’t all a bad place, even if she’s been dealt with emotional cataclysms and trauma, all throughout life. There’s a strive to seep into the redhead’s skin and counteract life’s toxicity ━ specifically that memory’s toxicity ━ with her own, unseen mark. The historian’s own antidote, whether it’s simply an attempt or if it actually helps. She hopes the sentiment matters, in the long run.

Taking a leap, she’s ready to try her hardest. Through gestures both small and large.

Without another word or measly showing of what she’s about to do, Charlotte gently holds onto Becky’s waist. At the same time, she tilts her head and leans upward. Deliberate lips then press against the skin of the Irish woman’s neck. A breath is released beneath the historian’s mouth, her lips gliding along the area with caution and slowness. She starts from the side of it, gracing the stretch of skin with pecks and longer kisses, gradually working across her throat. It’s when she’s directly beneath her chin that she feels Becky swallow hard, throat shifting against the other woman’s mouth. Charlotte smiles, wishing she could see the redhead’s eyes flutter closed at the sensation. Her fingers curl against the grey t-shirt covering Becky’s torso, scratching at the fabric as she goes further. A breathy grunt is released from the woman above her, Charlotte having to pause to exhale a shudder of her own. Once she feels fully satisfied with the gesture that came to be more selfish than she intended, it’s taken one step further. With hot breaths gifted to Becky’s throat, her lower lip drags upward along the curve of her chin. Until they’re eye level, at least. Until they’re able to get a good look at each other.

Or so the historian believes before it happens. In reality, she doesn’t have enough time to look into heavy eyes clouded by the stirring heat between them. Instantly, as their noses brush, Becky all but crashes their lips together again. It’s Charlotte’s turn to whimper at the feeling. To exhale through her nose while adjusting their mouths that move faster than before. The jolting adrenaline resurfaces, coursing through her body and inviting a thin coat of sweat to glisten against her skin. All in reply to the taste of newfound heat on her tongue. All in reply to the way Becky’s slides against hers, not caring to go slow anymore. Not caring about what they’ve dealt with before. Right now, it’s just the two of them, blending their bodies and kissing the night away.

All the while, thunder rolls on surrounding the cave’s exterior. Rain beats along the ground. Lightning illuminates the sky. It all creates an aura of specific intention. Their joint agreement of going further. Of being together, in every sense.

The grey fabric of the Irish woman’s shirt is scratched as inquisitive fingers move downward, sliding to her ass and pulling her closer with a firm squeeze. Becky can’t help but laugh slightly into the kiss, more so when she feels Charlotte grin against her lips. She has to resist the urge to tell her to shut up, or to ask if she’s enjoying herself. Every thought or teasing comment is dismantled when those same fingers drift beneath her shirt. When the blonde feels her soft skin and earns yet another, deeper exhale as the very tips of her nails navigate against it. Moving along the curve of her waist, Charlotte’s right palm then flattens with fingertips skating toward her back. Creating patterns, yet none in particular. Keeping her mind occupied when she feels handsy, otherwise falling more in love with the warm lips that press to hers without motive to depart anytime soon. Likewise with the tongue that languidly slides against hers, being a notion that proves to be a weakness when it stirs something in her core.

It’s only when she feels a specific, jagged scar on her partner’s lower back that her fingers’ motions halt. The kissing stops, too. With partial embarrassment ━ _misplaced_ embarrassment, Charlotte thinks ━ Becky backs up from her face so she can see the arising sadness in blue-green eyes. Under her shirt, the historian begins to trace it, feeling the scar’s length and contours. How deep it must’ve been, as well, judging by how pronounced it is.

The earth-shattering images that bite at her brain grow a lump in her throat, and perhaps an even harsher fierceness against Lacey. The idea of someone hurting Becky that much, that deeply, likely leaving more than just a physical scar…

Charlotte takes a deep breath as she glides the backs of her knuckles against it, meanwhile shaking her head while they’re close. She brushes against Becky’s nose repeatedly, giving her eyes that hold the unspoken decision: “Never again.” Never again will she let something so ghastly, so unthinkable happen to the treasure hunter. Never again.

Becky doesn’t hold back from accepting the sentiment, opposing the blonde’s head-shake with a careful nod, a mouthed “It’s okay” before leaning back down to give her a gentle, timid kiss. One that doesn’t lack the temperature of before, but somewhat stores it away so she can provide a matched sympathy. A mask of sympathy on the grounds that she can feel Charlotte’s secondhand pain radiating off of where she lies below her. She understands, and she mourns in the same way in regards to the wounds Charlotte acquired on her trip to Shambhala. A day later, she’s still kicking herself for not being there when the blonde needed her most. To defend the historian against the cruel world, or to soothe her forming scars before they dug too deep.

Nevertheless, another, chaste kiss is shared. Another, then another.

By now, it’s almost a pattern. After years of pent-up feelings for each other and added attraction, Becky is sure she’ll never get enough of the woman below her. She’ll never get enough of her lips’ smoothness. Their shape, their squishiness. The way she kisses: conscientious of the mood, tender, yet defining romance. The small breaths that escape her, and how she follows Becky’s face whenever their mouths depart for not even a second. Becky is also sure she’ll never get enough of her body’s subtle movements, like she’s anticipating their growing closeness by allowing her hands to roam beneath her grey shirt, but also back down to her pants. Mapping out the hunter’s curves, following them dedicatedly and memorizing each. Seeing where her hands evoke the most sounds, the most quivers and the most pauses of the redhead’s mouth. It’s all done in accordance to Charlotte adjusting to the moment, but hoping to remember each and every fragment of the expanding memory. Becky smiles against her mouth, but the expression is erased by Charlotte’s tongue tracing her bottom lip.

Above anything, the Irish woman is sure that she’ll want to do this again and again. She’ll want to see where it takes them, every individual time. Judging by the way the historian’s breathing quickly speeds up, quickly alters in a way that explains how ready she feels, how lost in the moment she is, Becky would presume it’s mutual.

Fingertips walk across her back as she feels a thin layer of sweat beginning to coat the area beneath her shirt. On her forearms, too, with her elbows pressed to the moss. Normally, she’d feel numb when she’s in such a bent position for so long. Especially after the events they’d endured earlier. Here, she feels comfortable. Natural, and, by all means, not paying attention to the stiffness. Not resting upon Charlotte, but opting to take her time. Opting to give Charlotte room to move, room to react wholly without restriction.

The hand that had been on her back slips out from beneath the fabric again. It’s soon on her neck, as if to hold her in place with nails gently digging into her skin. Against her attempts to stifle it, a low, throaty sound is reacted against the other woman’s mouth. Becky almost shakes her head at her self-control. At her impulse to react to a fiery touch before it’s singed her skin. Below her, Charlotte doesn’t seem to mind. Within seconds, she’s providing one of her own. A low breath that’s overly satisfied but also coiled into a spring. Her frustration is evident, and it’s shared by the redhead. In fact, their collective frustration is so mind-consuming that Becky doesn’t notice the blonde’s left hand shifting against the ground. Not until it’s grabbing her right hand that’s pressed above sprawled, blonde hair, Charlotte bringing it down to her waist. Becky can sense her partner’s desire to be felt. To be touched, and held. To be taken, above all, and handled by the Irish woman, specifically. She obliges without question, feeling the grooves of Charlotte’s white, ribbed tank-top. Her hand rests there, keeping it on her waist.

By this time, they both know what’s happening. They both know where it’s taking them, if they don’t stop. It’s not dreaded in the least bit. Nerve-wracking, maybe. No matter what, it’s so, _so_ wanted. Both women quake with eagerness as they kiss feverishly. As they delve into one another. Taste one another. Feel their opposing yet similar responses. Becky’s fingertips shaking against Charlotte’s waist. The blonde’s grasp holding onto her neck and keeping her as close as possible. Like she’s ready to swallow her whole, or refuse to let go until they’re overly exhausted. Until the spark fades, or the adrenaline they’ve cooked up becomes lukewarm. Until that nearby fire feels hotter than they are, or the weather outside seems more explosive than their anxious insides.

Charlotte doesn’t even mind that it’s not the least bit romantic in a cushioned sense. No rose petals, no cliché, heart-shaped bed, no planning, no dinner date beforehand. As long as she’s with Becky. The only person that’s held her eye for years without them being in communication for more than half of that time. The only person who’s kept her from staying committed to anyone else, who’s kept her from giving away the most valuable piece of who she is: her heart. And sometimes it stung, wondering why she couldn’t get over someone she never had an actual relationship with. Wondering why she was so hung up on the treasure hunter that broke her in half.

Well, maybe now she’s getting her answer. It was the universe’s plan. A little heartbreak can sometimes be less of a curse while ultimately rewarding. Now, it’s infinitely as fulfilling as Becky’s tongue moves against hers, as she tastes her love and gives it back. It’s almost surreal. And something tells her this isn’t the last time she’ll feel this tingly, this ignited and enwrapped in the woman pinning her to the ground. They’ll have plenty of days to make up for the lacking romance, and Charlotte can promise she looks forward to all of those days.

Her fingers curl a little tighter against her neck, nails scratching a little more, all wanting to earn another whimper. It’s successful, sounded against her mouth.

Come to think of it, she never understood the notion of “wasting” a first time, anyway. To her, every time’s a first time if you treat it as such. If you enjoy it as such, and revel in it. If you’re ━ again ━ with the right person. And Becky is far more perfect than the right person. No time, no breath, no moment of being in the redhead’s presence would ever be a waste. Including when they’re arguing. Nothing would be less eye-catching, less monumental, or core-shaking. Then, when they’re on the same page, all Charlotte wants to do is think about her, learn about her, stare at her. Take in her presence. Bask in it. Feel her, on every level. Like she does here, and wishes to feel even more. All of her. Right now. No more delaying.

With that in mind, Charlotte tugs on Becky’s lower lip and gets a sharp exhale, then kisses along her jawline and to her neck, nipping at her skin and biting gently. Becky winces at the subtle pain on her split lip but enjoys it, nonetheless. Also thoroughly enjoying the feeling of Charlotte providing her with multiple, open-mouthed kisses. Kisses with absolute motives to take them further. It’s punctuated when Becky feels the woman marking her pulse point, sucking the skin with drive to make a discolored patch that might as well be branded with an intricate _“C.”_ Her mouth opens at the feeling, once more trying to hold back the build-up of moans, whimpers, and anything else ready to fall from her lips. She can’t, though. Not when Charlotte scratches across the back of her neck, tangling fingers in her hair just barely while her hot mouth toys with the same patch of skin. Not when, at the same time, the historian’s left hand walks up her forearm, massaging her bicep through mutual gratification. Just an added layer to Becky’s decomposing state due to overwhelming, mixed stimulations that prove treacherous to her resolve. She can’t even grip onto the blonde’s tank-top any tighter without ripping its hem. She’s at a loss, balling her other hand into a fist with her forearm shaking against the ground.

“Fuck.”

It warrants a smug grin from Charlotte. Though, she doesn’t let it defect her motions. Like before, she wants to see the look on Becky’s face. The look of surrender, or such distress that she needs physicality as soon as possible. The outright desperation clouding her trembling features, especially when Becky attempts to bite her own lip to hinder her bold responses.

The historian finishes up her piece of artwork against the Irish woman’s skin, kissing it once, twice, three times. Hearing the wetness on her lips filling in the gaps of silence created by Becky’s sealed mouth, mimicking the nearby fire’s crackling. She feels heat radiating off of Becky’s neck. Steam, almost. The sweat of lust coating each inch of her skin. Then again, she’s sure her attention to it didn’t help.

The idea makes her smirk, followed by her eyebrows raising in self-satisfaction when she gets an idea. In sly thinking, she moves closer to Becky’s throat, dragging the flat of her tongue upwards at the slowest speed. A caught off-guard, jaw-dropping and deep moan is granted. Hollow, overly enticing and fully released. Vibrating the surface of her tongue, felt beneath it. Charlotte nearly has to stop, but she doesn’t. Not this time. Her nails scrape the woman’s neck in retaliation, and she continues with the daring motion until she’s following the curve of her partner’s chin. Then, her path is cut short. Automatically having her lips caught by a ready mouth once Becky shakes her head free of the grasp on her neck. On contact, the blonde’s own curse word rattles around in her head.

Becky’s hand shifts against white fabric, drifting a bit higher. Not too much, but enough to grow curious. Charlotte encourages her to roam, flexing her fingers against her partner’s bicep, but she doesn’t push her.

Even with such minimal movement of her hand, such minimal inches upward, the flash images of what could be, sometime, float through Becky’s mind. Those, alone, could stir another reaction or two. A soft moan as a result of dragging her hand up a little higher. The way Charlotte would squirm beneath her. The way she’d kiss her in further ecstasy. The way they’d become tongue-tied, the way her lover would capture her bottom lip again, or the way her mouth would simply tumble open in satisfaction. A gentle squeeze accomplishing the gist of it, perhaps. Her thumb rubbing across her partner’s breast, also with her mouth leaning closer and paving its way down the curve of smooth, sensitive skin. Those open-mouthed kisses, reciprocated and creating moisture along the area. Within her cleavage, down the middle, along the left-hand side of her chest until paying a balanced attention to the other. Gripping and wandering hands adoring every inch of her body with the treatment it deserves.

Selfishly, Becky wishes to shed Charlotte of her tank-top, completely. Of her jeans, and what lies beneath, as well. She wants to pin her fully to the ground, hear the inevitable, subtle hiss that would escape Charlotte’s lips at their bodies meshed together. She’d then kiss every spot bruised and scraped by the events that threw them into this island, and every acquired scar that Becky should’ve been around to glide her lips past when they first appeared. She’d later slink lower and lower with a goal to make Charlotte feel a build-up of her remaining past regrets and apologies only spoken by the swirl of her tongue. All in simultaneous promise that she won’t stray too far ever again. A promise of only pleasure from then on. No more pain, no more tears or loneliness. She’d prove her love, ultimately sending Charlotte over the edge with the flick of her tongue being the cherry on top of that sincerity.

Overall, she wants to be able to do this right, to do it fully and wholeheartedly with tenderness yet heat. Like it’s supposed to be. Naked, a thin row of sweat with bodies flush and tangled together. Barren legs woven, arms entwined, fingers locked, hair messily strewn along otherwise uncovered shoulders. Eyes resembling innocence as they hide adulterated wisdom and lustful memories. Smirks abound, sometimes disrupted with childish smiles before they kiss again and share their bodies’ remnants between two tongues that are finally beyond familiar with each other.

Mossy stone doesn’t make for the best bed, though, and she’s ought to be careful how she moves and how much pressure she puts upon Charlotte’s body. Particularly once remembering the bruises they’d earned since arriving here. She’s ought to be careful with how jerkily she moves, and how tightly she holds onto her. What she can do and what she can’t.

Deliberation comes, paying attention to her motions while kissing the blonde rather messily. Her calm mind contradicting the way she traces Charlotte’s bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.

Below her, the blonde doesn’t seem to mind the acute caution. She willfully ignores it. Evidently so, at least, when her fingertips walk up beneath the hem of Becky’s shirt to feel her taut stomach. All thoughts are derailed within the redhead’s mind. Becky tries not to shudder too much when it both tickles and feels unbelievably gratifying, pouring more heat into their kiss with a breath exhaled through her nostrils.

Looking from a broad perspective, the Irish woman admits that maybe perfection for this is subjective. Maybe it only depends on who you’re with, and the person she’s with is the sole person she’d ever expose herself like this to. Not speaking in a sexual manner as much as a sensual one, vulnerable from the day’s events and her recent confessions, but still willing to pry herself open and let Charlotte inside.

Charlotte’s fingertips continue to graze her abs, detailing the contours and creating streams of fire in their wake. Becky’s breathing picks up from the stimulation, alone, knees still digging into the ground below with nothing to grind down on despite her hips yearning to shift. Despite her thighs tightening, and her center itching for a release. Without warning, the blonde suddenly and slowly smooths her palms against her skin, applying pressure as they slide along her waist and to her lower back, and Becky is pulled down to mesh their bodies together. Her right thigh falls between Charlotte’s legs, proving to be a newfound sensation against the crotch of the blonde’s jeans. An incredible pressure that’s gifted between her aching legs, easing the throb between them. The historian’s throat releases a breathy grunt when she pauses their kiss, wanting to whine at the small wave of pleasure receding to leave behind deeper frustration. Their kiss then resumes, the woman trying to keep herself focused elsewhere.

Becky doesn’t let that pleasure diminish fully. She can’t. Not once her partner’s reaction rings in her ears. Once it heightens her senses, and she can feel herself beginning to smile in anticipation. She wants to hear the sound again, and again, and again. Whether it’s against her mouth or in her ear. It makes her mouth water.

Her thigh shifts, timidly moving up and down as their embrace is broken. A shaky exhale hits her bottom lip, a bestilled nose against hers. Ocean eyes flicker shut, face contorting over the building pressure. Charlotte’s breathing is prominent and sped-up, consistent with cracked noises that don’t have the strength to make it out of her throat. Becky’s thigh is too distracting, hips wanting to grind against it while her legs spread more, and the treasure hunter knows it. The sensation moves straight through the blonde, shooting up her core and spreading all the way to her fingertips as her hand assumes its spot on the other woman’s neck. Then, her fingers tangle in crimson hair, reveling in the flood of arousal that flows between her thighs when static roams through the rest of her body.

She wishes to kiss Becky again, but her hips try to buck at the feeling. They wish to raise, to ride against hard muscle. They want to lean into it, to soak in it and feel every ounce of relief that it provides. But she doesn’t. She’s determined to wait, to make herself practice patience. Her body is torn by the conflict, still breathing against Becky’s lips as brown eyes flutter open to see how complicated her partner’s features are. How twisted, and pained. How undeniably wanting, and compromised. Realistically, something about those features make her want to go further. To earn a bigger reaction, or to ignite something hotter. To push Charlotte to her limits, and see what grinds against _her_ resolve, for once.

It’s her turn to play with the blonde’s neck, leaning down and making quick work of it. Charlotte tilts her head back into the backpack’s surface, exposing her throat more for Becky to toy with. Another notification that she’s willing to be taken, Becky thinks. Teeth latch onto the area every now and then, mutually focusing on her leg’s movement between her lover’s thighs without taking away any direction from her determined mouth. The taste of sweat is profound on her tongue as she drags it downward, opting to move further with a punctuating, open-mouthed embrace adorned to foggy skin. Next, she kisses at Charlotte’s collarbones. Tracing them, tending to them as she hears her own, damp pecks crackling along with the fire. Then, the Irish woman drifts her lips along the gradual curvature of her partner’s chest. Every inch of it, paid attention to with driven lips and red hair tickling above where she travels. Cascading down with crimson tips brushing against the skin she’d treaded only seconds before.

Both stimulations are granted a moan, then her name. A sweet-spoken, but also raspy “Becky” that stirs the Irish woman’s arousal just as much. The name full of rapture, full of longing. Full of promise that it’s she who’s providing the top-tier pleasure speeding through coiled veins. Full of promise that it’s she who Charlotte wants. Asking her to keep going, too. It’s a tone ━ a blatant, telling reaction ━ that Becky will never forget. Her name, said in flustered bliss. Said in lust, and desire. Said while her thigh nudged further into the crotch of Charlotte’s jeans, said while she buried her face into the woman’s cleavage, kissing the middle of her chest firmly and with great content.

Outwardly, Becky shivers at the response. Goosebumps raise across her skin. To counteract the feeling she’s ailed with, her right hand reaches up and squeezes the historian's breast. Also playing into her earlier daydreams by bunching the white fabric beneath her fingers, flicking her thumb against the stiffened bump beneath and proving to strike sensitivity when Charlotte’s throat clenches. A whimper arches her lower back, as well. Just enough to be noticed against Becky’s own body when her partner curves upwards.

Below her, Charlotte revels in it all. Her fingers massage Becky’s head as she focuses on the pressure building in her core, the friction against her center, and the mouth moving across her chest. Also the fingers tugging at the neckline of her tank-top just enough to sink another inch or two lower. She breathes out at the restriction, almost groaning in irritation. Almost willing to tell Becky to take it off, despite the ground being the least bit clean. She’d be happy with paying the price of moss along her back. As long as she gets to feel the warmth of a damp mouth and skillful tongue lower, and lower, and—

The majority of her thoughts dissipate when Becky’s thigh thrusts harder, eliciting the combination of a whine mixed with a moan. Her chest rises and caves at a fast rate, after that. Particularly when she feels a pinching on her left breast, just at the peak of it, signifying that Becky has left her own mark. An imaginative, coupling _“B”_ that proves the hunter is willing to match her stride from stride. In fact, she’s willing to trump the blonde, the notion proven in the way Becky creates three more, darkened patches of skin around the same area. A trail leading up to her neck’s base. A trio of love-bites that Charlotte wouldn’t mind getting tattooed, kept forever. Becky Lynch’s personal branding against her pale skin.

She can’t help but raise her eyebrows and smirk a tad, chin lifted with her throat going dry from the cool air passing through. A leftover whimper emanates from her windpipe, vibrating her chest with a hum that Becky feels beneath her mouth. It reminds her to move her thigh again, Charlotte’s eyes closing tighter with her lower lip taken between her teeth. Not a surefire way to prevent herself from being heard, however.

Thankfully, in hopes to muffle her own sounds, the Irish woman is drifting back up so they can be face to face. So Charlotte can choke out those beloved reactions into an equally agape mouth. Once at the opportune angle, the blonde kisses her. Messily, coated in dire need that practically expresses how much she’s missed her for those few minutes they were apart. Thanking her for the new marks on her body, too, and what pools in her core as Becky’s leg rests close. Thanking her for the throbbing between her thighs, distracting more than anything. Feeling like it’s a heartbeat waiting for the denim barrier to be shed, and the thinness of her panties to be rid of, as well.

The lip-lock culminates to be so needy, so swift and desperate that their teeth clack momentarily. Not enough to be painful, though. Not like when Becky’s damaged, lower lip is stolen again. Held captive between pearly teeth. Vibrant red between sleek white.

She hisses at the jolt of stinging pain, but Charlotte can tell she basks in it. The corners of the redhead’s lips even twitch into a bewitched smile. Whatever acute apologies the historian had been drumming up before that are stolen away when a low hum comes from the woman she kisses again. Lips, then tongue. Languid and careless of the thunder that shakes the cave once more. Charlotte pulls her in closer by the back of her neck, right hand scratching at the sweat-ridden surface like their expected state. Left hand now resting on her upper back, nearby. Keeping her in place, and loving her there.

Between them, the treasure hunter’s hand begins to roam. Downwards. Lower than it’s gone before. Her lip is popped back into place after being snatched again, being kissed heavily when Charlotte realizes what’s happening. It takes every drip of strength to attach herself to Becky’s lips. To not wait for the inevitable. To not glance downwards and watch, or lick her lips at the sight. To not spread her legs further and show that she’s willingly preyed upon. That she’s willing to be taken rather quickly, or even immediately. Which, honestly, is the same reason why she keeps her eyes closed as much as she can. If they were to open, if she were to stare into a dark, brown gaze, she knows Becky would understand how far gone she’s been since the very first kiss they shared.

Her frantic lips kiss the redhead harder. Her fingers grip a little tighter, too, holding onto her shoulder and neck. All while feeling the Irish woman’s hand slink between her thighs, atop the denim. Pushing against the sew of her jeans, and pulling a strangled sound from her throat. One that Charlotte attempted to keep down, but at the last second decided to release for their collective benefit.

The woman does it again, and her mouth falls open with what resembles a deep “Oh.” As the hunter’s fingers bend at the smallest angle, as she moves her hand to create a thin amount of friction in the best of places, as she feels Charlotte’s damp heat come through the thick fabric. The blonde’s nose leans against her lover’s, jaw slack while she thoroughly enjoys it all. While her hips buck, too, moving with a knowledgeable hand and following it to most benefit herself. While her body very obviously begs for a more direct touch, something without restriction.

Becky’s breathing picks up when she can tell the other woman is so enticed in an assortment of ways. When she notices how her partner’s body has reacted to her touch, how she’s worked up Charlotte’s senses to their highest state, how she’s taken control of the blonde and how she’s been allowed to.

She’s stuck in her head, in the meantime. Wondering if she should give in so promptly, wondering if she should help Charlotte with some sort of release or if she should tease her a bit longer. The woman’s disgruntled sounds have become her favorite, to say the least. Not to mention the nails that create crescent shapes against the skin of her upper back and neck. Then again, she knows that going further may bring about a new favorite type of sound. A new pleasure, or ecstasy that they’ve hardly touched upon yet. Becky shivers at the thought, her own hips wanting to shift against Charlotte’s right, jean-clad thigh.

So, breaking their steamy lip-lock in a spur-the-moment decision, her hand slows its pace. In fact, it entirely slides away from the area, following the outer curve of Charlotte’s left thigh before resting there. She waits to look into eyes laboring to open.

A pair of inches between their noses, Charlotte detects the swirling questions within her fiery gaze. One, in particular, stands out amongst the rest. It’s a question of consent, or a question asking if she wants something more. Something that Becky wants confirmation on, as if her body language wasn’t enough of an indication. The woman beneath her shakes with restlessness, letting out a breath that mimics a low, reserved gasp. Next, she doesn’t hesitate in nodding her head. Not too fast, but not too slow. Direct enough for Becky to understand, to proceed without second-guess. Charlotte wants this. She wants to feel everything the redhead is willing to give her, at this point. Part of her would even beg for it.

“You’re sure?”

A twisted, mildly frustrated smile is given. Genuine, but overly flustered. Her lips seal for a second, after, rubbing them together. Then, her eyes sparkle. As though she’s picked up on Becky’s need for verbal confirmation, and she wants to provide it with a matched sentiment. It strikes a chord within her, anyway. Giving herself away to Becky the same way roles were reversed, an hour ago. A journal may pale in comparison to her body, on the surface, but, as far as Charlotte is concerned, both are meaningful in this case. Becky’s journal has always been an extension of herself. After tonight, they’ll have exchanged something unbelievably important. They’ll have exchanged the concept of trust, and that, alone, is alluring. Charlotte swallows through her dry throat, nodding again.

“Yeah,” it’s mouthed, a tiny smile flickering through darkened eyes.

Noticing her disgruntled state, a quick, damp kiss is pressed to the historian’s bottom lip. Charlotte wonders if it’s partial graciousness or if it’s somewhat an agreement. Nevertheless, she doesn’t have time to question it. She wouldn’t have tried, anyway. Because, once Becky straightens her back just enough, Charlotte witnesses nimble fingers undoing the button of her jeans. Her knuckles are prominent with shadows from the glowing fire, showed off while unzipping the garment with such an excruciating slowness that the blonde nearly lets out a strangled exhale at the sight. Realistically, her head flops back onto the backpack as it’d been eased upward, and her eyes slam shut.

Becky situates herself in the same spot as before, though she’s nudged Charlotte’s legs a bit wider. More than enough to keep herself comfortable, and to use the newfound space to her advantage, particularly when the woman’s left heel digs into the ground and her leg is bent. The perfect arc and position for them to each stay respectively cozy and flexible.

She nearly smirks at the thought. Not to mention the sight of her lover at her mercy, awaiting the inevitable movement of skilled fingers. Straddling the historian’s right thigh, she leans back down and digs her left elbow into the moss near blonde hair fanned against the backpack. Lowering herself so she can kiss at her partner’s temple, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth, her jawline, and everywhere in avoidance of her lips. In avoidance of muffling the noises that’ll undoubtably flow within seconds. Becky glances down to her right hand, formerly lingering on Charlotte’s lower stomach as it slides lower. The blonde’s throat quivers. Something that occurs regularly as the Irish woman’s palm slides closer to her center, fingers soon tucked into the undone waistband of her jeans. A shaky breath falls from bruised lips, Charlotte biting them to refrain from reacting so harshly to the bare minimum.

Her hand glides deeper into the historian’s pants, feeling nails scratch along the skin of her neck and shoulder. Currently just running back and forth without digging into her skin. Waiting for their moment, however.

Finally, Becky moves her hand fully into position. Although, much to Charlotte’s distaste, the hunter remains hovering above her underwear. Teasing her. Toying with her. A lone finger testing her limits, tickling her entrance as her breathing immediately becomes labored. Strained and bothered. Becky kisses her bottom lip, but otherwise keeps herself distanced so Charlotte has nothing to lunge forward and mute herself with.

It doesn’t keep her from trying to focus elsewhere. Instead of leaning upwards like she’d been planning on doing, instead of taking Becky’s damaged lip between her teeth to elicit a hiss, her own, left hand slides down her body until she’s able to entwine their fingers. Keeping Becky’s hand between her legs, feeling her overwhelming arousal and hoping that the gesture convinces her to stop fooling around. She can tell Becky feels it, judging by the way her movements hinder and her features contort in surprise as their noses touch. Her nails also dig into the back of the redhead’s neck to beg her further. Although, the slight clawing that comes two seconds later is more absentminded. An outcome of pushing the woman’s middle finger against herself in a way that makes her jaw collapse and her chin lift before she forces her lips to seal into a tight line. They don’t stop the imminent, cracked moan that pushes its way out when Becky vibrates her finger in place, and it’s a sound that sends a shock through the Irish woman’s body. Charlotte can tell it had an impact on her lover, wishing she’d finally give in. Wishing she’d dodge her underwear and slip inside. Feel her dampness wholeheartedly, dive into it and move slickly against her heat. Ultimately, let her release the build that’s knotted up her body to its maximum state. She holds their heads together, breathing into the other woman’s mouth when her lover doesn’t let up on her finger’s subtle yet pressureful movement.

“Becks, come on.”

The whined request is like music to her ears, tightening her lips together in a straight line before she’s able to recuperate enough to keep on her false act of resisting temptation. It’s see-through, but still attempted.

“Hm?” she plays coy.

Charlotte feels the lone finger press deeper, right against where she wants it the most, creating a spike of that cherished friction. She has to pause, her grip on the other woman’s hand loosening and detangling their fingers, dragging it up to her wrist. Her limbs tingle too much to keep a solid grasp on anything, though she tries. Her nails do, at least, as they dig into the creamy skin of both her forearm and her neck. Becky rubs harder, a devilish glint in her eye when Charlotte’s chin raises more. When the legs sandwiching her hand quiver, and when the blonde’s left heel drags along the ground as if she’s trying to get a better sense of reality. As if the stars behind her eyelids are too dizzying.

“Holy _sh━”_ the formed curse is ended prematurely by her own power, gritting her teeth so she can say what she truly wants to. “Please.”

It gets a grunt from Becky. More so a sound of acceptance, or relent. She’d been holding out against both of them, truly. At the strain of Charlotte’s juicy plea, all the Irish woman wants to do is give in. All she wants to do is feel more of the slick moisture that already drips through the thin cloth keeping Becky from where Charlotte wants her most.

So, she happily obliges.

Removing her hand from above the sheerness of her underwear, in nearly the same motion, she slips fully against her primed lover to immediately feel hotness lather her fingers. Charlotte’s back arches beneath her. A full moan comes, as well. One that’s gifted to her mouth, tasted on her tongue. One that could even voice a “Thank you” if she were to speak coherent words. One that Becky could, quite frankly, return once she’s rubbing her fingers through tangible appraisal for her motions. A warm payoff that creates a similar response between her own legs.

Charlotte’s hands resume their former positions on her upper back and neck, digging into her skin so hard that Becky wonders if she’ll bleed. This time, she’d wear the wounds with honor and pride. Battle scars of the best kind.

In turn, the twinge of pain only makes her push further, and also makes her inadvertently grind down against Charlotte’s thigh. Half-inadvertently, she’d admit. Her own mouth tumbles open, at that, and she wants to do it again. A mild release for herself as she focuses on her hand moving within her partner’s jeans, a pair of fingers making themselves known by pushing into her wetness and curling partly. The historian’s right leg lifts slightly to match her left, a jerked reaction to the sensation, but it works to Becky’s advantage. She’s able to roll her hips more, exchange a few more moans with the woman below her. Her free hand balls into a fist above blonde hair, scratching the moss beneath. The tingling within their limbs is mutual now, though Becky isn’t sure how to deal with such swirling urgency tangled in her own core when she’s too wanting to drum up any sort of friction between her legs. A groan is pulled from her throat, feeling her hair fall to curtain around them.

Below her, the historian doesn’t know where to focus. The feeling between her legs is already so strong, so soon, especially at the rate which Becky’s fingers are moving through her folds. Fast, with intention, knowing how to rub against her and with how many fingers. Knowing when to enter her, and when to wait it out. Knowing when to curl her fingers inside, when to hold, and when to release. Each time, it throws Charlotte off. Becky delays her build, her inevitable orgasm. A rhythm steadies itself, in time, and it creates more sweat between them.

Charlotte’s head spins. She’s at a loss, letting the pressure build up within her core while all she can otherwise do is scratch her partner until there’s a tear of skin.

“Holy shit.”

Unlike before, the whole curse flows when two fingers trace her length before a third is added and swirled around her clit. Then, she buries her face into Becky’s neck in hopes that she can keep herself occupied. Messy kisses are granted to her skin. Another hickey is formed. Deep-red bite marks go along with it, trailing in every which way up to behind her ear. All while the treasure hunter whimpers at the various stimulations, also allowing the woman’s nickname to spill repeatedly. Her jaw clenches when Charlotte kisses beneath it, throat bobbing when she swallows a large sum of air.

The distractions ultimately stop when Becky angles her hand a different way, pumping two fingers into her with ease as Charlotte has to lean her forehead against the redhead’s temple. Matted, crimson hair meshes with her own, though she doesn’t notice when she’s busy moaning directly into her lover’s ear. Becky matches each one, her own hips’ speed picking up as she’s suddenly coming up on the same loss that Charlotte is enduring. The same amount of friction that proves unworthy of getting the job done. The historian notices. She feels the bucking of the hunter’s lower half against her angled thigh. She feels her warmth, too, brought through the fabric of Becky’s camo pants and her jeans alike. Prominent and unmistakable, and even more enticing.

Through desire to make the upcoming end double-sided, Charlotte maneuvers both hands around Becky’s position while wearing a pained face. A determined face, additionally. The fingers within her jeans don’t let up, brushing against her clit and making her legs twitch repeatedly, wanting to close at how sensitive she’s already become. She can tell that the Irish woman is basically making a game out of it now, solely to find out how much she can endure.

Powering against it, the tall blonde focuses as she shakily undoes Becky’s pants, just the same. The redhead’s jaw drops at the feeling of her waistband becoming loosened, but she doesn’t have a chance to say anything. She hardly has a chance to formulate a single thought, or try to get Charlotte to focus on herself, for now. Every thought within her is destroyed once the historian’s right hand is slipped straight into her underwear, giving her a pair of fingers to grind against, a palm to brush against where she throbs. Becky can’t help but grit her teeth to hold back a round of _fuck_ ’s, _shit'_ s, or _God'_ s, all of which would be tailed with the woman’s nickname. Even an estranged “I love you” comes to mind, but Becky manages to bite her own tongue.

They keep going together. Both women acting as though they’re trying to break the other’s willpower first. Charlotte is closer, and they both can tell. The way she squirms is too obvious, the way her hips rise and fall to match the fingers that are coated in her arousal, the way her legs threaten to seal shut in sensitivity, the way her throat shudders when every reaction melts together.

Becky doesn’t let up on her fingers’ movement, feeling the wet heat covering them and using it to her advantage. She pushes into Charlotte again, pulling out, and doing it repeatedly. A sequence that she’s taken to for the extent of her time spent between the woman’s legs. God, how she wishes she could finish it with her tongue. Bury her face between thighs begging to hold her captive. Taste her wholly, hum against her center, and lap up every ounce of her lover while shaking fingers hold her in place. Hopefully pull her closer, ride against her, before pushing her away once she couldn’t take it anymore.

She daydreams about it, but doesn’t lose sight of what’s happening now. Like Charlotte’s legs shaking, her slick center pulsating to the point of being felt, her moans growing more cracked and rapid. Almost non-existent, yet still there. Her head nudges against the historian’s, heated breath against the shell of her ear and cascading down her neck. Causing her skin to feel clammier than it has. The Irish woman is held onto, practically hugged as she drags her fingers up her partner’s length. Soon keeping her fingers in the spot that’s proven to earn the biggest response from the blonde. She pushes more against her, into her, feeling Charlotte speed up her own hand’s motion between Becky’s legs in hopes to keep up.

Even so, with her climax building, it’s getting hard to. Becky doesn’t seem to care, either. Not when she moves faster, more diligently, like she’s trying to derail her actions. Charlotte can feel her toes curling, heel digging into the ground and peeling back the moss, and her chin raises away from her lover’s face. Head tilting back into the bag, her left hand’s nails dig into Becky’s neck, pulling her closer. The redhead obliges and tongues the span of her throat, all while the historian begins unraveling.

Her thighs shake, her back arches as much as it can, and her neck flexes while a moan can hardly make it out of her throat to signify her orgasm. Becky feels it, however. She notes the hot, fresh coat of wetness on her fingers and up to her knuckles, the way Charlotte tightens around her as she slows her motions down. A mild thumping is felt against her hand, a subtle heartbeat as she extracts those few fingers while a whimper is pulled with them.

The friction between her own legs doesn’t let up, on the other hand. The historian’s release proves to be another catalyst for her energy, in spite of her body feeling drained. Charlotte pushes into the woman above her, Becky’s high suddenly building more than it had earlier. Her hips rock in the same motion, the blonde’s thigh raising more to create direct pressure at a better angle. The Irish woman buries her face into her neck again, biting down and hearing a stinging whine. She doesn’t release her jaw’s grip, her body beginning to coil up with her hips’ motions stiffening. Becoming jerky. Beyond desperate. Telling them both she’s nearly there, she’s peaking, until she finally comes.

Deep breaths moisten the skin of her lover’s neck, Becky falling down from her high as her teeth release with a stickiness. The mark of their impact remains as she backs away slightly, though she kisses the area tenderly. A silent apology, though Charlotte wouldn’t ask for one. The blonde’s body still tingles from reaching her all-time high, especially remembering it as Becky’s hand slinks out from her jeans. A leftover grunt emanates from her throat while she does the same, ready to let their limbs unwind in a post-orgasm relaxation.

This time, Becky doesn’t mind flopping down onto the body beneath hers. Resting practically atop it, her right thigh between Charlotte’s. Arm slung over her midsection, absentmindedly massaging the white fabric beneath her hand. Her face is cuddled into the historian’s neck, as well. Comfortable and serene. Innocent, in comparison to previous events. Becky can’t help but laugh a tad, but it’s more like a breath. Charlotte feels it against her skin, and licks her lips when they feel dry from passing so much air. Crimson hair tickles her neck and collarbones, sprawled against it while she runs her left hand through her own. Her right wrapping around her lover, keeping her safe. Snuggled up, and sensing their energy crashing together.

Additionally, they try to wrap their minds around the events. Becky, more specifically. How, hours ago, she was fighting for her life against that waterfall. Eventually saved by Charlotte. How, earlier, she was falling down the cliffside after escaping that camp, waiting to die atop that rock. Again, saved by Charlotte. How, after that, she thought the historian wouldn’t talk to her again. She thought she wouldn’t even entertain the thought of making amends and moving forward. Falling for each other, above anything. Now, it’s like they’re in a dream. It’s like Becky is on cloud nine. Part of her wonders if she truly did die on that rock. If this has been her eternal dream-like state showing her what she’s missing out on, in reality. Her head nuzzles further against Charlotte’s neck.

No, she thinks, this is definitely real.

Furthermore, she can taste the remnants of the historian’s lips on hers. She rubs them together, breathing out a tiny chuckle at how fantasizing she feels. How in disbelief. It’s ethereal. Too good to be true, even.

Her heart stutters at the thought. A coldness creeps into her throat, but not too much. Just enough to bother her, though not enough to let the pessimism win. Not this time. Still, her head lifts so she can look at Charlotte. So she can see the angelic look on her face, colored by the pale red of a dying fire. So she can watch her catch her breath mutually as much, all while embers shoot upwards nearby once a log topples over.

Gaining an eye-level position, Becky forces a smile. “Forces” being used loosely. Her eyes undoubtedly hold a soft emotion, and Charlotte brushes a few strands of damp hair from her face. A sweet gesture, particularly considering how sweaty she must be. Not to say the historian is much better. Simply another reminder of how close they’ve gotten, emotionally and now physically.

In spite of having a fresh level of relationship reached, there remains something else on her mind. A leftover, nagging aspect that pesters her enough to open her mouth. Ready to say something, and confess without being asked. Ready to present the inquisition with insecure features that’ll expose her entirely. Her mouth closes, then opens again, and finally shuts with a clack. A grunt is heard, and Charlotte frowns at the obvious struggle.

“What is it?”

It’s soft-spoken, as per usual. Becky’s heart melts at the tone, specifically at the raspiness of it, having to bite the tip of her tongue to prevent her from gaining a pair of watery eyes. God, she’s so fucked. Ultimately, she shakes her head and forces another, plastic smile. Then, she reclaims her prior position against Charlotte’s body. Fitting like a puzzle piece, cuddled into her side with her nose against the nape of her neck. Her body curled, slightly bunched up. Charlotte still waits, more so when she feels Becky’s mouth open again. This time, she’s able to force something out. Not to say it’s very telling of any sort of emotion aside from conflict.

“I…” she stops. “Nevermind. I don’t want to ruin the moment,” it’s unreadable, the blonde’s eyes narrowing at the cave’s ceiling. “I don’t want you thinking I’m sad, or… _anything._ ‘Cause I’m not,” the reassurance is quick before her voice turns to a whisper. “My mind’s just…”

That’s the end of it. Nothing more.

Charlotte gives her a slanted smile. One that portrays how much she understands Becky’s frustration when it comes to expressing herself. Comforting fingers run through reddened strands, massaging her scalp and hearing a content hum. It vibrates against her skin, the blonde smiling. In terms of conversation, she doesn’t let it go. She can’t afford to. Tonight is a night of opening up, and she thinks, after what just transpired, they’re exposed enough to be rawly honest about anything.

“Talk to me,” her nose is pressed to Becky’s head, kissing the top of it.

A few seconds go by. The Irish woman breathes in, then out. Her exhale is gifted to sweaty skin, chilling it and creating goosebumps that don’t last very long. Charlotte’s left hand moves to hold onto Becky’s as it rests atop her stomach. Fingers drawing patterns against the back of it, right away. Keeping them both occupied, and allowing Becky to revel in the sensation until she drums up enough confidence to say what’s on her mind. Finally, she does.

“You’re not… going to regret this, are you?”

She can’t help but give the idea a tiny laugh. Her lips seal to backtrack. It’s just that the notion is so silly, so astounding. All this time, she’s been pining over Becky. Now, she finally has her. It’s only incredible that Becky hasn’t noticed how dedicatedly she’s followed her. Even back in Oslo, although Charlotte tried dismissing the concept of working with Becky again, all she wanted to do was suggest they at least get lunch. Just to catch up, or talk. She might’ve been upset, but there was still a portion of her locked deep within, pleading with Charlotte’s mind to let it go.

After all, she’d wanted to know if Becky was safe. For years, that’s the only information she longed for. To hear what she was up to, if she was okay. Then, once she had it, the anger surfaced at the knowledge that Becky had been hiding away from her. Having the time of her life, or so the blonde presumed. Honestly, Charlotte can’t stop herself from harping on the fact that they could’ve been this close, all along. They could’ve communicated earlier. They could’ve fixed things immediately.

But there’s no use in doting on it. There’s no way of fixing the past, or pretending it didn’t happen. The best they can do is move forward, and act upon the present. Charlotte promises she will.

She takes a breath, rubbing her lips together before leaving the remnants of a grin on her face.

“The only thing I regret is not being somewhere more cozy,” it’s grunted out, adjusting her back along the mossy stone.

Again, Becky leans her head upwards. On sight, the historian notices that her partner is serious. Completely genuine, and sincere. This is an actual worry of hers. Charlotte licks her lips, then tilts her head partly.

“Becks, I would’ve never let it happen if I was going to regret it,” her voice is kind. “It wasn’t a ‘heat of the moment’ thing.”

Initially, brown eyes mix with the color of her own. Becky waits to detect a trace of lying, or exaggerating. Charlotte holds her expression, though a smile grows. The redhead swallows hard, a faint shade of relief washing over her features. Her jaw lessens from its clenched state, and her gaze floats down to Charlotte’s mouth. Unlike earlier, Becky doesn’t stop herself from capitalizing on it. She leans in, kissing attentive lips. Their mouths stick together lightly, separating slowly before Becky lies her head back down.

“Just checking.”

“We can take it slow if that’ll ease your mind,” Charlotte offers, speaking courteously. “I know it’s a little silly saying that _after_ we’d━”

A laugh interrupts her statement, the other woman feeling it against her neck. The treasure hunter shakes her head more than just a bit, Charlotte scrunching her nose in mutual entertainment.

“No, no. That’s not it. I just… want to make sure.”

For a second, they settle. Only for a second, however. Becky lifts her head again, and they both know the humor has faded off. It leaves behind its former seriousness. Although, it’s not in a bad way. It’s contemplative yet truthful. A feel for where they are in their relationship, and how deep it is between them. The treasure hunter outlines her features, breathing deeply until her lips part.

“Promise me you won’t regret it after we leave here.”

Charlotte appears curious by mildly amused.

“Is that was this is about? You think this is, like… a spring-break thing?” a tiny laugh slips out, not condescendingly but as if to call her lover cute. “Where we just pass the time by having a night together and then we split?”

“I… don’t know,” her expression is bashful, head ducking.

 _When she puts it like that..._ Becky thinks. Truly, it sounds incredibly dumb. Can she help it? Not really, but, at the same time, how can she think that? How can she feel Charlotte’s fingers dragging across her skin so sensually, her eyes on her so lovingly, just to think it’s a one-night stand? Becky chews her inner cheek.

Watching her partner’s face contort is telling. It’s no doubt conflicted, pondering. Stuck in her own head. Charlotte feels her struggle from where she lies. It nearly sears her skin, as well. To ease the tension on her lover, she relents.

“I promise I won’t regret it after we leave here. I’d never regret anything with you,” she mutters. “Not in a million years. No matter where we are, or when, or what’s happened.”

Her eyes sparkle as she says it earnestly. Becky’s smile reforms, albeit shakily. Somewhat resembling of wanting to cry of happiness, but also not wishing to ruin the moment any more than she already has. Or so she thinks, until Charlotte leans up and kisses her lips. It’s chaste, simply a lingering peck, however it’s heated. Stirred up, like they hadn’t lost their abundance of energy quite recently. Like their aching limbs weren’t reminding them of the day’s unbearable events, including the climbing, the jumping, the swinging. The workload of it all. Here, the ache fades as it’s replaced with makeshift energy constructed by sparking lust.

Charlotte readjusts her mouth, kissing her harder. Becky reciprocates instantly, the same, fuzzy feeling lingering in her core as if they’ve resumed their actions from minutes ago. As if it was a mere pause to let them breathe. The historian feels it, too. In fact, she hums at the sensation. A shade smug, as well.

“In fact…” it’s spoken against Becky’s lips, trailing off.

Her impending questions are answered as Charlotte gingerly nudges Becky to the side. Gently switching their positions and laying the Irish woman’s head down onto the backpack with delicate fingers. She then lies on top of her, straddling her partner’s thigh and having blonde hair cascade down around them as she holds herself up by her forearms flat against the mossy floor.

“I’m not done with you,” her sentence is finished.

Sealed with a kiss, within a second. She nudges her nose past Becky’s, noting how flustered the redhead appears before their eyes are closing. The thickening tension clouding the air doesn’t prevent Becky from continuing their banter, on the other hand. She breaks their kiss, Charlotte hovering above her.

“So you _are_ passing the time,” it’s pointed, teasing, and a laugh is breathed through the woman’s nostrils.

“Well, the storm’s not over, and I’m not tired enough to sleep yet.”

Becky feels Charlotte’s mouth graze against hers while she speaks, tickling her lips. She goes to respond, to perhaps even agree and scrap the chit-chat so they can proceed with the night’s upcoming festivities. It’s the historian’s turn to interrupt her before she even begins.

“But, most of all, we have a lot of wasted time to make up for,” a tiny smirk curves her mouth. “Don’t you think?”

At this, Becky smiles. Hard. She’s beaming, shaking her head at the words. Of course, it’s only derived of extreme agreement mixed with dumbfoundedness about how lucky she is. She wishes she could say it. She wishes she could even share a few more compliments that she’d been biting back throughout the extent of this trip. But, in the end, she doesn’t have the time. She doesn’t want it, either. With that fading smile, her hand gently rests on the back of Charlotte’s neck. Fingers twitching against her skin, partly tangling in her hair.

In hopes of not wasting any more of that precious time, she brings the historian’s mouth down to hers, kissing her again and again as the dying fire crackles, feet away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now I have shit to say. Usually I don't for these types of chapters, but...
> 
> Aside from the fun of it, I think this moment was also very necessary for them. I think it's sort of this bump they had to get over to ease their minds and to understand where they are/how they can act on their feelings. It was somewhat an explosion of it, obviously, but also a moment where they're like "I do trust you." And although we've seen them go through a whole mess of emotions since they've become reacquainted, this has been brewing since years back. Charlotte, especially, has wanted to be close to Becky since the get-go. Becky also did, but she was more reserved (as we saw). She wants Charlotte, but she doesn't want Charlotte to regret it/second-guess herself. Because of how often Becky has felt abandoned, she doesn't want to open her heart up just to have it happen again. Though, she trusts Charlotte, and this marks the beginning of it. Charlotte will simply have to remind her time and time again.
> 
> From now on, the real fun begins. You're going to see more banter between them, a "honey-moon" state, so to speak. More casual conversations about trust/acceptance, then you'll see flat-out forgiveness, you'll see growth. You'll see Baysha, and their developing relationship. Moving forward, it'll be more lighthearted in terms of relationships and talking for both pairings, in light of the circumstances, but we're not going to stop Becky's arc until it's entirely wrapped up. She still has some growth to work on. This time, she has Charlotte's help.
> 
> I'll now be going on my break again. I know, I know, there are so many. It's such a hefty story, my goodness. Unlike last time, I've hardly worked on the next part of it because my mental health has been very... un-good. But I'm fixing that little by little and I'll get back here ASAP. At least I left you somewhere sweet, amiright? Nevertheless, this break will likely be longer than my last. I think I came back within a week, last time. This might be a bit, depending on when I decide my next break is or if I'll have one (which I'll let ya know; I don't like keeping you waiting). Anyway, we'll have some fluff to look forward to when we get back. So hold onto that. If there are any questions about my break/if you're shaking in your seat waiting for some info of my progress, reach me on Tumblr ("wwe-charlie"). 
> 
> For now, I'll see you soon-ish. Enjoy Becky 2 Belts, in the meantime. Thank you for dealing with me, as always.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Been a while, huh?
> 
> So, I won't keep you long before you read the chapter. I'll save it all for afterwards because I know I've been away for a bit. However, for those who are wondering: I do have a small "BTW" about Rhea in the bottom author's note, which I felt was important to include in light of recent events.
> 
> Nevertheless, for now, have fun.

TUES., 8:12 A.M.

* * *

A boisterous, metallic banging pings off the walls surrounding them. A harsh, thumping kick ━ then another, and another ━ granted to the five-by-eight interior of the bulletproof truck holding them hostage. Rust chips off, in the process. Flakes of it, raining down against its silver wall and trickling to the stained floor. It vibrates against the force, sounding hollow as it wiggles for a split second. The hinges to the back door creak, as well.

Sasha’s face contorts in strain. The same goes for her biceps. A vein is prominent through her forehead, jaw clenched to the maximum state as her skin glistens with sweat. A clammy outcome from being contained in what might as well be a heatbox, plus her wild exertion. The act of sitting with her tailbone digging into the tarnished metal beneath her, knees bent, arms outstretched with her palms flat behind her. Obscure leverage in order to slam the flat of her right boot against the back door of the moving truck. Every now and then, she puffs out a breath. More like a huff, or a grunt forced from her throat. Endless noises of struggle that stay overrun by the engine’s humming. Most of them a result of her energy waning due to the fact that she’s been doing the same motion, interchanging which foot she uses, since they’d been tossed into the truck’s back end. Since the vehicle started up with a purr ━ a roar ━ and they exited their overnight camp. More specifically, since they were told they’re going on a field trip to New Devon, ready to snuff out Avery’s treasure.

Truth be told, she knows her attempts at escaping are a lost cause. She knows no amount of violence against the door will get them out of here any sooner. A prime piece of evidence being that they’re held captive within a heavy-duty vehicle. A vehicle built to withstand explosions, let alone a couple dents against its inner walls. _If_ she could dent it, anyway. Quite frankly, her usual strength has become extraordinarily lessened, ailed by a sleepless night following a strenuous yesterday. A yesterday full of gunfights, anxiety, collapsing towers, being captured, fighting against Lacey and multiple soldiers as they tore Charlotte from them. Even after that, she kept fighting. She kept pushing against them, daring them to challenge her.

Admittedly, she said some things she wishes she hadn’t. Not with Bayley next to her, ripe to hear her hateful remarks directed at the militia. No matter if they’d been taken hostage or not, she initially wanted to be the brunette’s light. To repay the navigator for being hers, throughout this trip. Thus far, Sasha has failed.

Her throat tightens, wanting to peer over her shoulder to look at the other woman. She stops herself from doing so, glaring at the truck’s rear end.

On the other hand, all things considered, she can’t _not_ try to escape. She can’t let herself continue to fail. She can’t just sit back and wait, do what she’s told, willingly keep them captured without so much as a simple attempt to change their fate. There are lives at stake. Not only her own ━ nor Charlotte and Becky’s ━ but also the life of the brunette who’s kept her sane up until now. The woman whose back remains pressed to the shaking wall, body swaying with the vehicle’s movement while her head tilts in Sasha’s direction. A pathetic, exhausted expression that all but pleads with the mercenary to relax. To give up. To give it a rest and simply breathe out.

She’s tried saying that, too. Did Sasha listen? Of course not. Granted, Bayley knows her partner’s frantic, determined nature is more so at the idea of being held prisoner by ruthless perpetrators. Nevertheless, wasted energy will do them no good. What’s the use of freeing yourself if you’re going to fall flat on your face, crushed by debilitation, right as you accomplish that freedom? Bayley remains silent, licking her lips, in the process.

It isn’t until Sasha gifts another, wound-up kick to the back door that they hear a soldier’s muffy voice come through from the front part of the truck.

“Quiet, back there!”

In response, the mercenary lets out a low growl. Being defiant as ever when she challenges him with one last kick for good measure. A severe, knee-quaking blow to the truck’s wall, actually shaking the compartment as a whole. Bayley sways with it, placing her stiff fingers to the floor in order to hold herself upright.

This time, Sasha relents. Shaking her head in a silent fit, she twists her body and all but tosses herself back against the metallic wall. Her chin lifts once she’s situated, upper back pressed to the cool, foggy metal with her jaw clenching. Pulsating, more like.

Her partner watches the shift of her throat whenever she grinds down harder, wishing to ease her tension with the stroke of her thumb. The physical contact that Sasha had provided her as they walked through the treasury’s front yard. As they tread along the massive graveyard of exposed, picked-clean skeletons. She knows that the comfort would lessen Sasha’s frustration as much as it had for her, yesterday. The intention of it, alone, and the sentiment is enough to provide a certain calm that uncoils the tightest of internal springs.

Against her desire, Bayley keeps herself sitting across the compartment. Legs outstretched like her partner’s, though Sasha occasionally rubs her kneecaps in hopes of regaining some feeling within the bruised muscle surrounding. A deep breath comes from the mercenary’s nostrils, right hand running through her hair as it untangles an end. She frowns at the minor tug on her hair, being watched by the woman across from her within the tactical compartment.

Their bodies waver with the vehicle’s sporadic movement, hitting the floor hard whenever it strikes a bump. There’s certainly no leeway in the space’s comfort. There’s no cushioning, or forgiveness against their already-frail bodies. In fact, there’s not much of anything, at all. No windows, no seats, no grooves in its base, no sliding door to see into the front space of the truck. It’s a cargo area, more than anything. Them being the cargo. The only blemishes in the container’s walls are slanted air vents ━ _luckily_ ━ that allow them to see flickers of morning light seeping through. Sometimes, a breeze wafts into the space, as well. Giving them some much-needed, fresh air to inhale as the closed-off area otherwise smells musky. It’s foggy and sweaty. Moist, clammy, and slimy. A pungent aroma consisting of dirt and whatever-else filling their nostrils. Secondhand sweat, probably.

By now, after thirty minutes or so, they’ve gotten used to it. Both fortunately and unfortunately. They’d prefer not to be exposed to this type of setting, in the first place, but at least they’ve grown accustomed to the disgustingness of it.  

Silence swirls between them. It suffocates them, actually. A sound ━ or lack thereof ━ full of regret and guilt, primarily radiating off of Sasha. Regret and guilt regarding her failure, or how she hasn’t succeeded in the one area she was hired for: protection. Being an insurance policy. Bayley can see it in her eyes, too. Her self-directed disdain, her worry, her nervousness. The wheels behind her gaze turning with their options, or potential outcomes.

Admittedly, Bayley feels it, too. She shares in those worries, that nervousness. She wonders what’s going to happen to them. What’s happened to their friends. What Becky ever did to those women, following her brief time working for them. She wonders about the redhead’s story, and what she hadn’t shared with them, before this venture. Not in a resentful way, no, but in a sense that Bayley wishes to piece the puzzle together. To know what they’re working with, at the end of the day, and how they can possibly defeat these foes.

It’s all so messed up. Today, however, her thinking is more so drained. More so tired, and… _done._ She didn’t get enough of rest to harp on what’s bound to happen to them. What may or may not be their fate, once everything is all said and done. In fact, she’s not even sure if she slept at all. Her eyes stayed open for the night’s extent, drying out and hardly blinking, but perhaps she became lost just enough to recuperate behind a glassy focus. Behind a burning gaze that punctured the cell they were thrown into.

She and Sasha had been kept together overnight. Leaning against the same wall, chained up together as the pitter-patter of rain hailed against the tent’s roof. For the most part, they kept quiet without exchanging any sort of conversation. Neither of them wanted to say what was on their mind, mostly at risk of breaking down. Bayley felt like breaking down, at least. Even so, being kept by Sasha’s side was the only thing that kept her comforted, if you were to ask. The mercenary would admit the same. They were held together in a makeshift cell set up by some soldiers, fed scraps of the canteen’s menu: some sort of stew. Against their bitterness, they ate what was given. There was no use in spitting on something that could ultimately help them. Heal them a little, or provide a small spurt of strength. Something that they knew they wouldn’t be getting from sleep, that night. And, if by some chance the food was poisoned, things couldn’t get much worse, anyway. The two were already held captive, their friends lost, and they’re sure Lacey doesn’t have any long-term plans for them. In the worst of ways.

Bayley swallows hard, eyes lifting to look at Sasha’s desolate face.

“Why didn’t they chain or handcuff us?”

The question exits the navigator’s mouth before she can stop it. Before she can even relatively attempt to keep their minds free of plausible, added stress. God, she should’ve asked about something else. Even at the risk of seeming passive about the situation. At least then she’d be proving to stay her lighthearted self.

It doesn’t pester Sasha, however. The mercenary glances at her quickly, like she’d been waiting for her to speak. Like she’d been waiting to hear her voice since yesterday, or pleading with the universe to let Bayley be okay. After all, Sasha is sure the other woman has never been held captive before. Truth be told, she’s surprised the brunette hasn’t fallen catatonic. Hearing her voice provides a wave of relief she wasn’t sure she needed. Feet away, Bayley can tell that she’s grateful for the rise in conversation. No matter the topic. The mercenary’s eyes are shiny, reserved, but also grateful. Fragile in their own way. As if Sasha had forgotten the sound of her voice, so she’s reliving what it feels like to hear it for the first time.

She has to resist flashing the woman a sad, sympathetic grin. An apologetic one, too. One that expresses how sorry she is for not making conversation sooner. She’d been so conflicted about speaking to Sasha while she’s clearly teetering along the lines of her explosive personality, being backed into a corner and ready to strike. Though the navigator knows her partner would never snap at her, there’s still the desire of giving the mercenary her space.

Pushing away her initial shock, Sasha forces a steely expression. A telltale sign that she doesn’t want to get caught up in her own emotions. Her own fluttering heart, or the tightness making her throat grow sore. Those unshed tears that aren’t visible. She can’t get caught up in her mild fervor or sentiment. Not right now, at least. Not being the only one to do so, moreover.

“They don’t deem us a threat without weapons. Locked in the back of a truck with no windows… we can’t do much,” she answers, straight to the point. “Pretty insulting, if you ask me.”

The scoff that exits her throat is telling. Although it’s weak, it holds a lot of weight. It pays tribute to something beyond the current scenario. Something deeper, and something in the broader scheme of things.

Sasha’s eyes peer around the truck as if she’ll find another exit. A stray screw. A crevice. A crack to kick against, to peel back, to punch through. Even at the damage or puncture of her own skin. Her jaw shifts when she finds nothing, however, locking in place and keeping her eyes away from Bayley. Something that becomes more noticeable within the passing seconds, like when she not-so-subtly bows her head and darts her eyes to the navigator, then away again.

The brunette’s heart falters in curiosity. She chews her inner cheek at the blatant skittishness. What portrays itself as embarrassment, come to think of it. A mixture of irritation, as well. A subtle layer of unknowingness lying beneath. Bayley nods, more so to herself. Looking away from Sasha’s off-putting demeanor, there’s something that’s been on her mind since they’d gotten captured. Although, even then, she hasn’t had the chance or courage to voice it. Not until now, that is.

“You don’t blame her, do you?”

It’s inquisitive, quiet and plain. Unreadable, above anything. Soft-spoken interest at its finest. It’s also random, and there’s not much to go on, Sasha thinks. She frowns, tilting her head to the side and squinting.

“Who?”

A modest huff exits Bayley’s throat. A borderline grunt resulting from pushing herself away from the wall. Her butt scoots against the containers width, bringing herself closer to her partner. Her lips purse, features mildly contort, while she shifts closer. Before she’s inevitably sat next to the other woman, she grunts out the redhead’s name of “Becky,” answering her question.

Within seconds, she mimics Sasha’s position. Backs against the wall, shoulders brushing, their legs outstretched while the mercenary seals her lips in thought. The truck hits a bump right as Bayley gets comfortable, both of them wincing in acute distress before it settles.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” the brunette continues. “Last night didn’t seem like the best time,” a weak chuckle tails the statement.

No reaction comes from her partner. Sasha simply licks her lips, trapping the tip of her tongue between her teeth before easing her head back against the cold wall. Her hands are kept in her lap, resting in place with her thumbs rolling past each other. A distraction, of sorts. Before that, Bayley watched the way her fists unclenched for the first time in a while. Right as their thighs brushed, Sasha clearly relaxed. Her body untangled. The rush within her limbs lessened. On sight, she wondered if it’s due to how close they’ve become. Physically so, but also mentally. She thinks back to the idea of contact helping both of them. How she’s now earned confirmation in the reaction from the mercenary. At the idea, her lips twitch into a smile ━ albeit shortly and barely.

“No, I don’t,” Sasha exhales, hoarsely. “I don’t blame her,” she clears her throat.

An attentive gaze stares at her. Eyes boring into her temple, silently asking why. A very obvious question mark burning into her profile. Sasha laughs a tiny bit without turning her head, being a mixture of direction at herself and at how curious the brunette seems in her answer. A lump forms in her throat again. That persistent heaviness within her windpipe that threatens to create a fresh wave of tears she’ll ━ as per usual ━ refuse to spill.

The adoring gaze on her skin is too much to ignore. Too important, and too meaningful. It persists in its attempts to pry her open from mere inches away. It’s warm against her side, caring and cautious. In spite of the circumstances, Bayley is still as soft as she’s been since they first met. Since they came face to face in that Madagascan airport, courtesy of Becky. If nothing else comes from this trip, Sasha will be sure to thank the treasure hunter for introducing her to Bayley. A surprise constant in Sasha’s life. The _first_ constant in her life, come to think of it. The only one, too.

Desire clouds her heart. The pink, glittery sensation that’s fuzzied her soul since very shortly following her initial encounter with the navigator. She can’t ignore it, either. Hell, she doesn’t even think she wants to. Happiness is a rarity. That’s something Sasha is beginning to understand in such a cruel world. It’s something she hadn’t paid attention to until recently, and something she doesn’t wish to forget, once they make it out of here. It’s the little things, she muses. The unseen things, and the non-tangible aspects. _Emotions._

_“Its new to you, isn’t it? Feeling.”_

_“It’s not new, I just choose to not do it often.”_

Unlike her usual self ━ her _old_ self ━ she decides to change her stance. And, to prove her appreciation for that happiness, for the person who’d delivered that stirring sensation in her gut, the mercenary doesn’t hesitate to act upon it.

Through careful movements, she gingerly reaches for Bayley’s hand, taking it between her own. Immediately playing with her fingers. Next to her, the other woman doesn’t mind in the least bit. At the first touch against her skin, her heart leaps into her throat and takes refuge there. Her eyes glisten, as well. Though her head bows, watching Sasha distract both of them with subtle tickling against her dirt-riddled palm, she can’t help but grin.  

Sasha’s lips part, the tip of her tongue dragging along her lower teeth until she sighs.

“I wish I could blame her, but…” her mouth shuts, shaking her head. “Either way, we’d still be fighting these people. Doesn’t matter if she knows them or not. Sure, a warning would’ve been nice, but I knew what I signed up for,” there’s a pause, then her voice lowers. “I just keep hoping they’re alright.”

More patterns are drawn against Bayley’s skin, the brunette noting the way her fingertips glide against the smoothness of it. The patterns are more intricate. Dare she presume they’re written love-notes along her palm, although she can’t decipher a proper word. A heart comes next. Intentions beneath the more precise drawings point to being derived of the unknown. Especially when Sasha mentioned them being alright. During the pause, and after it. Even now, it’s as though the mercenary is trying to keep her mind functioning on a logical path. To prevent herself from falling into a pit of overwhelming misery and plausible scenarios that their friends may be dealing with. Since they were separated, they haven’t heard a peep about Charlotte or Becky. While it’s potentially a good sign… it’s also not a very concrete one.

Bayley gives Sasha a slanted smile, though she can’t see it when her eyes are fixated on the opened palm in her lap.

“You care about Charlotte a lot, don’t you?”

“I do,” she confirms without missing a beat. “Becky, too,” her chin raises so she can lock eyes with Bayley. “Even if she’s put us through the wringer here. I have to admit, it’s been… an experience,” a tiny laugh is exhaled as she looks away, the brunette giving her a similar grin.

“Same for me.”

Although it’s a returned, casual statement, Sasha tastes the underlying meaning within it. The implication of them. How this has been an experience, in total, but the brunette nudges it into a realm of being predominantly involving Sasha. Their time together ━ just them two ━ has been an experience. Their growth together, and their intimacy constructed within a short amount of time.

She shares in the sentiment wholeheartedly. Despite her lips parting at the insinuation, she also eases her expression into that of a smile. Into an obvious relief, and agreement.

Bayley blushes and turns away. A clear-cut attempt at escaping the impending questions. The silent ones, at least. Simultaneously, the stimulation of drawing fingertips against her palm becomes more pronounced. More undeniable when it comes to words being written. This time, she manages to decipher what’s being spoken through gentle fingers: the straight line of an _“I”_ and an _“L.”_

Her lips seal tightly.

_“I like you.”_

The words, finished with a surrounding heart that spans along the surface of her palm.

A tiny chuckle filters through the minute crack in her lips. Small enough to pass off as an exhale, luckily enough. She’s not sure if Sasha knows that her tactic has been noticed. She’s not sure if she should mention it, either, or return the statement. But, _shit,_ does she want to. In the end, Bayley finds the wherewithal to change the subject.

“I have to be honest, I don’t know _any_ of this history,” the whisper is frail, lowly scared. “If they ask, or make us figure something out…” her words trail off, disappearing into nothing.

“I know a little,” now, her finger traces the lines of her palm, Bayley having to refrain from twitching. “After Charlotte and I briefly worked together, I’d visit her sometimes, and I caught a case of bookworm,” she childishly rolls her eyes. “I studied a little bit. Not to mention I surprisingly listened to Becky’s enthusiastic tidbit about the case. I don’t know _as_ much, but I’m sure we can hold them off until I get an opening.”

Bayley frowns at her do-or-die attitude. Her bluntness about it, furthermore.

“We’ll get slaughtered, and you know it.”

The motions against her palm cease. A sudden tenseness bleeds into Sasha’s body language. Not an anger, nor an upset. A flash of chilling dismay at the insinuation that Bayley believes ━ in any case ━ that they wouldn’t make it. That Bayley, herself, wouldn’t make it. Beyond anything, that’s too much for the mercenary to stomach. The images within her mind erupt wildly, but she shakes her head. A breath is forced, then another, and another.

Bayley notes her strives to keep herself calm and collected. She seals her lips, feeling bad for bringing the short-notice pessimism into the space. An apology is on the tip of her tongue when Sasha interrupts.

“I’m not going to not _try,”_ her eyes are pleading when she raises them. “I won’t let them hurt you, though. I promise.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Bayley says with a seriousness in her voice, and Sasha looks at her with a vulnerable gaze. “If you don’t follow their orders, and if you jump at the first window you get, you’ll be killed in your tracks. That won’t end well for me, in the long run, either. Losing you isn’t something that’s going to keep me safe or living in _any_ way.”

Wavering eyes stay on Bayley’s. She melts into her sincere gaze, her pleading features that request she listens, for once. That request she takes it one step at a time, and doesn’t pretend that it’s her versus their assailants with Bayley standing behind her. Gradually, the words sink in despite the crease in the mercenary’s forehead. Internally, her heart flutters. A lightness creeps through her bones, as well. Even though it’s not her normal way of doing things ━ not her normal quickness, her normal tactic of getting the jump on their foes ━ there’s no way she can shake her head at Bayley’s desperation. Her begging of Sasha to reconsider, and to take her time.

Next to her, the brunette understands her apprehension. Her hesitance about it, and why her lips ultimately seal. Why Sasha bows her head, more than anything, wishing to hide away and slowly weigh their options. But they can’t afford to take too long in thinking about it, unfortunately. They know their time within the vehicle is thinning, judging by the truck’s speed lessening every few minutes. Bayley shifts, easing a bit forward as if to look into her partner’s lowered eyes.

“I like you, too, and I’m with you, Sash,” she mutters, seeing the woman’s lips part in partial surprise. “That means we do this _together._ We’ll figure it out as we go.”

The seriousness in her words deflates Sasha where she sits. Not in a bad way, however in a relenting way. A portrayal that she knows Bayley is right. Automatically, the navigator knows that her partner has accepted the request. That she’s non-verbally agreeing to go about it carefully. To listen to Lacey, to Rhea, to whoever shoves them along. All in hopes of being able to find their moment of escape. Ultimately their moment that will grant them enough of a window to sprint away and find their friends.

With a sigh, her agreement is solidified in the way the grip on Bayley’s hand tightens a fraction. Firmly, enough to portray her decision. But, to Sasha, it isn’t enough to help her thumping heart. It isn’t enough to cater to her fulfillment, her hopes that she’s expressed her gratitude enough. She’s been thankful for Bayley’s level-headedness throughout this venture, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t give the brunette the valid recognition.

A smile curves her mouth, bringing Bayley’s hand to her lips and kissing her knuckles. Slowly. Making sure it’s not a quick peck, yet holding her breath. Ghosting over the area, taking her time to be sensual.

Her partner grins at the gesture, nerves tangling within her throat. She can’t hinder the smile that resurfaces, however. Not a chance. Instead, a quiet hum emanates from her throat. Hardly heard over the engine, over another bump that the tires hit, but it’s there. Sasha knows that Bayley has reveled in the gesture, and that the brunette’s cheeks are a faint red. Once she turns to the other woman, she can see it with the simple flickers of sunlight that poke through the walls’ vents. Her gentle smile is reciprocated fully, their clasped hands set in Sasha’s lap.

A quietness settles over them. Not an awkward one. Derived of comfort, and understanding. Also exhaustion, and an evident crash in energy. Sasha even nudges closer to Bayley’s shoulder, wishing she could lean her head down to rest it against her partner. Wishing she could cuddle up to her, perhaps close her eyes and fall asleep. Perhaps she could be held, too, if the brunette would wrap her in inviting arms. Sasha knows Bayley would, if given the chance. She knows that the navigator would pull her closer, rest her cheek against the top of her head and doze off together. She’d let Sasha listen to her heartbeat. She’d let her feel safe, despite Sasha being their designated protector.

After they’re off the island, she hopes her theory is confirmed. Many times, if you were to ask the mercenary. And, every time, she’d feel blessed to be in those comforting arms. She’d feel lucky as hell, and she’d never take it for granted.

For now, the warmth of Bayley against her shoulder is making her sleepier. In spite of being two heaps of sweat from being locked within such a moist compartment, their proximity is intoxicating. Sasha shakes her head at the idea of getting too enwrapped in their comfort. She can’t afford to sulk in her tiredness, truly. Definitely not when they’re unsure of what they’ll be facing within the upcoming hours.

So, to keep herself awake, she unclasps her hands. On instant, Bayley frowns at the loss of contact, but soon beams when she sees the mercenary extract a small, golden flower from her bra. The flower that Bayley gave her, back when they first discovered Libertalia. Fully intact, and protected. No bends, no breaks. Against all odds, against all elements, the flower has thrived next to her heart.

Sasha sees the woman’s smile out of the corner of her eye, but stares at the flower as she spins it between her fingers. Treating it with kindness and care. Something that takes Bayley’s breath away, although she seals her lips before she’s able to speak.

“You kept it?” there’s a hint of surprise in her tone.

“No, this is actually a different one,” Sasha’s dullness is uncanny. “Identical, isn’t it?” she jokes, accompanied by a smile, and it earns a genuine laugh ━ one that causes the mercenary’s cheeks to flush. “Of course I kept it,” the response is softer. “Why wouldn’t I?”

The other woman traps her lower lip between her teeth, remembering when she picked the flowers. What went through her mind, how she stuffed a few into her pocket for safe-keeping. First and foremost, how she wanted to give one to Sasha. How it seemed like a sweet offering, even if not a big one. It was a spur-the-moment decision, honestly. It was a gesture to ease her own heart, to cater to her own feelings, but she never expected it to mean volumes to Sasha. Sure, she’s beyond happy that it did, and it’s not like she expected the mercenary to snicker at something so childish, but to know that it meant something to Sasha is important to her. To know that it held enough sentiment for the other woman to hold onto… it means the world.

The flower is tucked back into Sasha’s bra. Then, her hands are flopped back into her lap. Time and time again, nervous eyes dart in Bayley’s direction. Continuously, unstopping. There’s apprehension strewn within her posture. Her attitude displaying sheer conflict. Particularly given the way she plays with her fingers. The way her lips seal, then rub together. As if she wants to say something, yet is too nervous to. Further supported in the way her mouth opens and closes once, twice, three times. Finally, it shuts entirely as Sasha shakes her head. Her hair moves with the motion, purple ends gently sticking to her sweaty shoulders. Bayley furrows her eyebrows at the lack of confidence.

“What is it?”

It’s Bayley’s turn to take her hand. She cradles it between her own, delicately entwining their fingers. It’s become a customary thing, now, and it doesn’t surprise either of them. It’s a natural reaction. A newfound instinct. Sasha muses that it’s become their thing, and she’s thankful for that.

The contact is serene, even if her mind wishes to overrun itself until it breaks down. Even if it lingers on something that they haven’t spoken about since the first day they reached the original island. The conversation that was interrupted by Charlotte, although Sasha wanted to say so much more to the brunette ━ A.K.A. the woman she never looked at as a stranger. From the very beginning, there was something about her. There was something that made Sasha want to change. To be _better._ She’s never had that before, and, as they’re facing another life-or-death situation, maybe it’s time to say something. To let her partner know what’s been on her mind. She braces herself, sucking up a large breath before settling. She then turns her head, looking at Bayley with decisiveness.

“Before the wreck, you asked me why I care if you’re uncomfortable with me or not.”

“Sasha, it’s━”

“No, let me answer you,” her interruption is kind, placid and determined to get it out. “I care because I know what it’s like to have that innocence taken away by people you’re around. You get influenced, and, before you know it, that innocence is just a memory.”

“None of us are innocent,” Bayley retorts, the reply smooth and wise.

“You are,” she disagrees, a sad smile on her face as her eyes drift to their hands. “Not in an immature way, but…” a brief struggle ensues. “You’re so pure and untainted by this world. You keep your chin up, no matter what,” Sasha swallows the lump in her throat, eyebrows raising without looking at the other woman. “I wanted to make sure it stayed that way, and I wanted to be the person who helped you. I didn’t want to be the one to take it away just because of who _I_ am.”

Those damn tears make another appearance. They tighten her windpipe, threatening to close it while spilling over her eyelids. Even when she lifts her chin to look at Bayley, she can’t keep her tears at bay like she normally would. She can’t force them away, or blink them out of her eyes. There’s a slight wobble of her chin, her lower lip quivering despite every ounce of her strength pushing to stop it.

All before she brokenly whispers, “I didn’t want to let you down by being a bad guy,” a single teardrop falling into her lap.

Bayley’s frown is so extreme that her mouth opens. A hushed exhale of “No” coming out as she turns her body when she sees multiple tears streaming down Sasha’s face.

“Sash━” she tightens her grip on her partner’s hand, ready to respond and comfort her with everything she has, every fiber of her being, until they’re cut off by the truck lurching when it comes to a creaking halt.

The mercenary’s chin raises. Her lips seal, too, shaking her head at the universe’s timing. Beyond that, she curses at the way their hands unclasp once they hear men shouting. Once those muffled voices drift closer to the back door of the vehicle. With determination to put on a solid facade, Sasha slaps the water from her cheeks and allows her irritation to surface. She allows herself to appear menacing, readying herself to meet the men who walk closer to the back door. The humane emotions flee from her limbs, clearing her mind of remorse for the time being. Just enough so she can shift in front of where Bayley is crouched against the floor. Just enough to protect the other woman, to use herself as a shield. A frown is settled against her mouth, glaring at the door as it swings open with force.

A puff of dust releases, being a result of the rusty hinges hitting their swing’s threshold with leveled inertia. Two automatic weapons come into view before anything else. Before the men’s faces, even. Before the trees, and the surrounding foliage that backgrounds the firearms. Soon, they get a glimpse of the soldiers. More dressed than the day before. More dressed than this morning, come to think of it. Both are assembled, head to toe, in tactical outfits. A row of grenades on their belts, ready to be used. Straps of ammunition across their chests, as well, for quick reloads. Bullet-proof vests covering their torsos, beneath those straps.

When Sasha doesn’t wipe the determination from her features, a gun’s barrel moves closer to her face. Her nostrils flare as she holds out her arm to guard Bayley, bending it slightly to partly wrap around the brunette who stays still, crouched, behind her. Sasha dares them to make a move against the navigator. Thankfully, they don’t take a chance.

“Get out,” one man demands. “We’re walking from here.”

Hesitation follows. Her jaw clenches in waves, shifting in place. Sasha doesn’t move, however. Behind her, Bayley stiffens, and the mercenary notices. The brunette’s fingers are on her lower back, curling against the fabric of her tank-top. Permanently begging Sasha to stay true to her word. To listen, and accept that they have to go along with it until they have enough of an opportunity. It’s only when the navigator’s fingertips subtly drag along her spine, tracing up and down, that Sasha relaxes. That her adrenaline lessens, and her limbs tingle. That the tightness of her jaw lets up, and she blinks.

A moment of indulgence, an absentmindedness of the woman’s hand moving down the smooth of her back that gets them both to understand the consequences of the moment’s brashness. The men in front of them don’t notice, either. Currently, it’s her and Bayley against the world. Sasha knows she’s not alone in this. She knows that her partner will keep her safe, just as much as she’s determined to keep Bayley safe. So, as the navigator’s hand rests in the same area, Sasha huffs through her nostrils.

 _Patience,_ she reminds herself.

  


 

A red hue bleeds through her eyelids, pestering her brain until her nose scrunches in irritation. The chirping of birds echos into the cave, a woodpecker knocking against a nearby tree as insects buzz. A frog croaks, too, being clear and obvious. Unmistakable, and loud. The layered sounds of nature stirring her more than the sun had, backgrounded by the cave’s own waterfall somewhere behind them.

Her throat releases a strained groan that hardly makes it into the air, turning her head further to the right and burying her face closer into crimson hair. Likewise, her left hand shifts along the other woman’s waist, her knuckles being held onto by limp fingers. Spooning the Irish woman. Her lover pulled as close as she can be in order to share their morning warmth. In fact, Charlotte’s hand is even slipped beneath grey fabric, curling her fingers against delicate skin as they’re loosely entwined with Becky’s. A dragging motion she’d done repeatedly the previous night, though she keeps her nails at bay, this time. She keeps them serene, and calming. Consistently dragging them forward, against the taut skin of her stomach. Trapped beneath the woman’s shirt, but willingly so. Loving the way their hands are nimbly clasped with intention yet sleepiness.

In a lesser pleasure, her other arm is numb as it’s mostly bent beneath her own head. Somewhat above her partner, too, while Becky is slunk a tad lower with Charlotte curled around her. Keeping her safe and comfortable. Two puzzle pieces, clicked into their natural state. She wouldn’t mind staying like this forever. Based on Becky’s snoozing, she’d guess that the hunter wouldn’t, either.

The tranquility is too consuming, Charlotte finds. Because of its allure, she struggles to open her eyes. The sun flowing through the cave’s mouth is blinked away repeatedly. Shrugged off as she shakes her head partly. Not enough to be noticed by the other woman, not enough to disturb her, but plenty to notify the blonde of her own exhaustion. Another, hard blink erases the reddeness for a beat. It attempts to, at least. No avail, in the end. But it does energize her brain to the point of understanding their whereabouts. To the point of realizing that it’s past daybreak, additionally. Ultimately, to the point of comprehending that they’ve slept late. Not too much, however. Judging by the brisk atmosphere, she’d say it’s still early. Past dawn, but early.

Oddly enough, she doesn’t panic about it, in any sense. Although they’d slept in, the pair of them managed to get some much-needed rest for the venture ahead. It delivers the historian an acute sense of relief. On the other hand, in spite of it not being too late, they can’t afford to wait around any longer. Not today, sadly. Charlotte forces herself to remember that they have plenty of time to make up for the morning-afters they’ve already missed, and they have the ability to have endless encounters of the same realm.

An exhale empties her lungs once she glances toward the cave’s opening to see the treetops swaying in the breeze. She lifts herself upwards, using her right forearm to prop herself into a bent position. With a sigh, she tilts her head to the right and leans over the treasure hunter. In the process, her blonde hair trickles down onto the redhead’s shoulder, brushing against her skin before she pushes a few strands behind her own ear. Soft snores are granted a tender grin, while her hand is slipped out from beneath her partner’s shirt. As her arm moves, she notes the soreness in her bones. This time, it’s a nicer reminder. One that isn’t the least bit annoying, but somewhat triumphant. Yet another thing she strives to grow accustomed to, beyond this morning.

Through a certain gentleness, she lays her palm curved around the other woman’s hip bone. Simultaneously, her mouth is gingerly lowered to her lover’s exposed neck and part of her shoulder.

A slow, gradual peck is placed to heated skin, then another merely an inch away. A third moving upward to behind her ear, avoiding red hair. Each following the path of the fading love bites she’d branded the Irish woman with, hours ago. The earned response is a content grumble, more like a sleepy hum as Becky nuzzles further against the backpack. Also shifting an inch or so backwards into Charlotte’s leaning body. Her eyes remain closed, not even flickering. Not wanting to wake up, truly. Frankly, a scene that makes the blonde’s heart flutter with sympathy. It’s not that she wants to nudge the hunter awake, but it’s time they get moving. She knows a coherent Becky would understand the weight of the situation, too. Her reasoning, moreover.

Her lower lip is taken between her teeth, gliding her fingers to Becky’s arm in order to brush the backs of her knuckles across her bicep. Something to rouse her brain more, especially when her lips ghost past the shell of her partner’s ear. A tiny kiss is placed there, soon setting her forehead near Becky’s temple.

“Becks, we overslept,” the whisper is low, rubbing circles against her arm. “We have to go if we want to catch up.”

It’s punctuated with a brief shake against her shoulder. A final nudge that says she means business. Begrudgingly, it’s further signified by Charlotte ridding herself of body heat that’d been clung to her for most of the night.

She pushes herself to her feet, brushing her backside free of stray moss while admiring the awakening sight of Becky. How she groans, rolling onto her back with her hands brought up to her face. How the sunlight streaming into the cave’s frontside cascades the necessary light onto the Irish woman’s skin to show off those blotchy marks as a result of their night together. How the bites’ remnants are more faint than the hickies, though still visible. The scratches, as well. Not as prominent as Charlotte would think, but they’re certainly there.

Swirling memories dizzy the blonde’s mind. A blush surfaces rather quickly, Charlotte having to clear her throat and bow her head to rid herself of her inner musings. That reforming desire, as well. Against her attempts, the motion simply brings about a deeper blush. One that’s grown from seeing her jeans still undone, still loosened to the point of showing the waistline of her panties. Her tongue presses to her inner cheek, redressing herself with her fingers quickly zipping and buttoning her pants. Next, her tank-top is twisted back into place, then hands run through her hair. Most disorderly aspects resulting from the night’s activities, even more so evident in the mark that’s seen lying directly beneath her neckline.

The historian beams, fading when she rolls her eyes at herself. Admittedly, it feels nice to wake up happy. To wake up feeling rejuvenated, even with a small amount of sleep. Even with the ache in her bones, both from explosive encounters yesterday, but also from strenuous fun at night. Luckily, her achieved sleep seems enough to keep her moving for the upcoming day. She hopes that Becky’s sleep was kind to her, also. Judging by the way the redhead knocked out so suddenly, so comfortably while lying practically on top of Charlotte, she’d guess that it was.

More blush forms, having to shake her head and walk over to the cave’s opening to get some fresh air.

Behind her, as ocean eyes search the clear, blue sky, Becky sits up and stretches. Her muscles uncoil to the point of tingling, and there’s a prominent soreness covering most of her body. A dizziness in her head, as well, but predominantly from the stinging sunlight blocked by a silhouette. Similar to Charlotte, Becky runs a hand through her hair. Allowing the motion to untangle her crimson strands’ ends, letting it all fall messily over her shoulders and some of her forehead. She must look like a mess, but she feels hungover. In the best way, however.

“No time for coffee, either,” nearby, Charlotte puffs her cheeks out, noting the sun’s orientation. “I’d say it’s around...” she squints one eye, “eight. A bit after.”

Becky’s hands drop into her lap as the historian walks past her with a grin, crouching down by their bag of granola bars. She rummages through them, listening to the sound of a hoarse chuckle. The same smile stays on her face, forever admiring Becky’s morning state. Something else she’d missed, since their last expedition. Not to mention it’s something she’d remembered vividly, almost daydreamt about.

“I was wrong,” the hunter’s voice is raspy once she speaks. “You’re not a sunflower. You’re a sun _dial.”_

It’s given a smirk, eyebrows raising while extracting two bars from the baggy.

“At least that’s a bit more useful,” she seals it, stuffing the container into Becky’s backpack.

“Mm, you’re still pretty like a sunflower.”

Charlotte stops fiddling with the bag and squints. The smile on her face turns suspicious, turning to her partner with mild, acute judgement. There’s a rosy tint to the Irish woman’s cheeks, across her nose and beneath her eyes. Resembling a sunburn, though she knows it’s from her own hand stuck against her skin for the extent of her sleep. Another piece of evidence that proves she’d gotten necessary rest. A silly aspect that makes the historian breathe out a laugh, shaking her head.

“Are you always like this in the morning?”

“Like what?”

Her question is innocent, wholly confused by Charlotte’s words. The blonde stands, in the meantime, tossing the woman a granola bar before unwrapping her own.

“Naturally flirty,” she speaks with a mouthful, quirking an eyebrow as Becky does the same.

“I’m not like that all day?”

At first, she doesn’t respond. They make fast work of their meals. Charlotte finishes hers within a few bites, crumpling the wrapper and stuffing it into the backpack. Becky does the same with her own, afterwards. Once she’s swallowed the last piece, she decides to continue the conversation. A lighthearted banter to keep them moving. To keep them awake, more importantly, once she sees Becky’s far-off stare.

“You lose your charm after three puns,” there’s a smug grin on her face as she makes the comment. “Or, should I say, after an hour of being awake,” she throws the extra jab into it.

Becky scoffs. The sound causes Charlotte to peer over her shoulder as she moves to get their boots from near the stream, walking casually as she’s watched. But, once she returns to where the redhead remains sitting, Becky is wearing the same, dumbfounded and fauxly offended expression. Shoulders slumped, jaw slack. Eyes squinted, furthermore. Dramatic as always, Charlotte muses while snickering. Although, this time, she wishes to kiss those dramatics away. To lean down, cup her cheeks, and melt into another embrace before staying that way until nighttime. Perhaps beyond nighttime, even.

Realistically, her eyes blink heavily, sitting down to lace her boots. Leg outstretched near Becky, carefully yanking her shoes on one after the other.  

“You hear this, Froggy? The Queen’s a liar.”

Her gaze lifts from the tongue of her right boot, fingers stilling in place. There, Becky looks at a small, olive-green frog that’s sat a few feet away. His eyes glazed, staring beyond the Irish woman. Charlotte giggles at the way her partner bounces her eyebrows at the animal, pretending to have an actual conversation with him.

“Froggy the Frog?”

“Like Cam the Camera.”

Becky’s attitude is cunning, mocking. She makes a face at the hunter, though it’s truncated when she ends up snorting as the frog jumps at Becky. Through natural reaction, the woman jolts an inch or so to the left, breathing out. Grabbing onto Charlotte’s boot, in the process. The historian proceeds to laugh at Becky’s expense, earning a head-shake.

“Ha-ha, real funny,” she rolls her eyes, then pauses. “Three puns, though? Really? That’s my limit?”

“If it was up to me, it’d be one.”

Her palms are placed to the mossy ground before she heaves herself to her feet. Ready to leave, as soon as Becky is good to go. With brown eyes staring up at her, Charlotte offers her partner a helping hand. A chivalrous gesture that comes through a sultry gaze. A playful one, at that. Becky sticks her tongue out, jokingly sore due to Charlotte’s humor, before she accepts the gesture. Once they’re eye-level, she steadies herself and shakes her head. Similar to the blonde’s experience earlier, Becky glances downwards to catch a glimpse of her button and zipper undone. Without dwelling on the events that lead her appearance to be so unkempt, Becky tightens her waistband again and untwists her camo pants. Meanwhile, Charlotte watches, inconspicuously licking her lips before turning away.

“Puns make the world go ‘round,” the woman all but talks to herself as she slips her boots on, her tactical vest coming after. “Gets the ole noggin working,” a knocking sound is made with her mouth, finger tapping her head.

Charlotte chuckles at her antics, not helping herself when it turns into an actual laugh as the redhead bounces her eyebrows in good impression. Pretending to be entertainingly seductive in her own way. In her own, successful way. Much against the historian’s pleasure, at least. The last thing she needs is to give Becky something else to be cocky about. Though, quite frankly, seeing Becky’s smile more often is a goal she’s wished to reach for a while now. Starting today, she’ll work towards that goal. The treasure hunter deserves all the happiness, truly. Even if that means giving her something to be cocky about. Something to provide confidence, and overwhelming pride. With the way Becky’s eyes glance down to her marked-up neck, Charlotte is sure that she’s already acquired a good sense of pride.

“God, you’re so…” the historian keeps laughing at Becky’s oddness, the woman’s forming smirk, ending her sentence with a groan.

“Yeah?” Becky snickers at her lack of words.

The packed bag is thrown over her shoulders, adjusted a time or two. In front of her, the blonde continues to laugh. In fact, she has to seal her lips by force in order to stop her humor, ultimately responding to her partner with a firm “Yeah” as if it’s truly a good argument.

“Oh, yeah?”

Now, she dives into the entertainment. Amused by Charlotte’s amusement about nothing in particular. Amused by her faltering debate, above anything. As their cheeks hold a mirrored, reddish tint, Becky looks the other woman up and down before locking eyes with her.

“Kiss me about it.”

The following laugh is confused. Charlotte’s nose scrunches, smile widening as she asks, “What?”

“What?” Becky repeats dumbly, a smirk teasing her lips.

The other woman’s tongue presses to her cheek. Her comedy lessening despite effectively trying her best to stop smiling. It’s no use, but she tilts her head to the side and puts her hands on her hips.

“I am _not_ kissing you right now. We have things to do,” there’s a faint notice of blush on her cheeks, rather permanent nowadays. “Sights to see, people to _save,”_ eyes bugging, she leans forward a bit, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m not asking you to full-on _grope_ me,” the treasure hunter rolls her eyes, easing her head forward to mock Charlotte before shrugging and beginning to walk away, “but fine, fine, you don’t have to give me a good-morning kiss if it’s not worth the pause in what we have to do,” her hand waves. “That’s perfectly━”

Firm hands grip her shoulders, spinning her around before fingers cradle her cheeks and lips are pressed to her her own. The ongoing rant cut off sharply by a steamy gesture. One that causes the redhead to exhale through her nose, to melt into the embrace immediately. Her limbs slump, humming contently. Charlotte doesn’t mind the sound, moving to depart before giving into her own desires of kissing Becky further.

Internally, Becky muses how she’ll never get sick of the softness of Charlotte’s lips. The way they mesh with hers. How they move against hers. _With_ hers. The way delicate fingers twitch against her jaw, pulling her closer with her nails scraping gently. Becky can’t help but sink into it, to feel so love-drunk about it. In fact, the only thing that causes a break in the moment is the hunter’s smile curving deeper, disrupting the lip-lock before it sincerely begins. God, how she wishes she could let it begin.

Likewise, the other woman enjoys the short kiss as her shoulders relax. As her arms droop, and her body unravels. Becky tastes the same as she had last night, though lacking the fiery aspect that ignited them both. It reminds her of the events they shared. The sentiment, and the closeness. The multiple rounds of gasps and moans. The various bites and marks made along their skin. How, afterwards, they finally grew tired and only laid together. How they cuddled up, Becky’s leg hooked between Charlotte’s for approximately fifteen minutes before she was lulled to sleep. The blonde smiled when she heard her dozing off, the faint snores like she woke up to this morning. It was comforting to know that she’d allowed Becky to sleep soundly. Soon enough, she’d joined the other woman in the dreamworld, cheek nuzzled against matted, crimson hair. A scene that tickles her skin, even now as they get ready to put on a more solid facade. A more determined one.

Charlotte is the first to truly back up. She’s the first to forcibly tear herself out of her memories, and her wishes. Albeit, even when she pulls back, she’s not even an inch away with her lips ghosting past Becky’s. With them being magnetic to her partner’s, wanting to lean back in and stay there.

Catering to those desires, just for a split second longer, another peck is shared. Their lips stick together before lidded eyes open, and her thumbs drag along Becky’s cheekbones.

“You can be so insufferable,” it’s whispered against the Irish woman’s mouth.

Even so, they both know it’s adoration. They both know it’s pure love, and that of warmth. They’ve missed this intimacy. This intimacy that’s felt like home since the night before, though they’d never had it before. Not together, or with anyone else. It’s new, yet familiar. It’s strong as hell, too, to the point of Becky’s eyes constantly wanting to water. Thinking of how lucky she is, despite every other part of her life treating her with shit. If she’s messed up every other aspect of her life, every other area that needs improving or repairing, this is one part of it she’s going to get right. It’s one part that she’ll keep intact, untouched by her stained hands. Or cradled between them in hopes that she can nurture their love fondly. Completely, and with dedication. She’s determined to.

Her eyes flutter open to their full state. As Charlotte comes into focus, Becky can see her smiling softly. Knowingly, more so. The historian backs up casually, carefully, keeping their eyes locked while moving toward the entrance of the cave. Using every drop of her strength to back away from the woman keeping her so mesmerized. Becky feels it, too.

“Now, if you’re done being a pain,” the blonde waits with that same smile, nodding her head toward where they have to go. “We’ve delayed the trip long enough.”

Across from her, Becky gives her a subtle nod. A timid one, at that. One that’s full of fragility, and sudden comprehension. Nervousness, moreover. A telling that she’s scared of the impending events, leaving their serenity behind, and the settling knowledge that they’d abandoned Sasha and Bayley overnight. Even if they had no choice in the rain, Charlotte knew it was boring down on Becky’s heart. Sincerely, she felt ━ and still feels ━ the same amount of unnerved tension, but the best they can do now is push forward and find them. Today’s a new day, and they’re bound to find them. They have to, both Charlotte and Becky think.

The redhead doesn’t move, though she knows she should. She’s stuck in place, swallowing hard and chewing her inner cheek. Everything is hitting her all at once, and her eyes gloss over.

Charlotte detects the guilt in Becky’s features. The remorse of enjoying herself in light of how Sasha and Bayley are held captive by Lacey and her goons. Worse: they could be getting tortured while Becky is sharing kisses with the one she loves.

Bowing her head, the historian understands. She understands the regret, feeling selfish and everything relative. But she also understands that they’ve both needed comfort for the longest time, they’ve both needed to get this out, and it wasn’t a spur-the-moment thing. It wasn’t a celebration of being alone, or the two of them pretending that everything’s okay. It was them making up for lost time, for undoing their tension enough to clear their minds for the inevitable battle ahead. God only knows they’ve been distracted for most of this trip, so far.

Maybe today is the day where they actually work together. Where they’re a cohesive unit, battling against a militia and finding their friends. This time, they’ll be more cunning. More abrasive against outside forces, without being stuck in their own, scattered brains. Without harping on friction between the two of them. Now, they can work together. As far as Charlotte is concerned, she believes both Sasha and Bayley would be proud of them. Sasha’s reasoning primarily due to knowing Charlotte’s qualms with the treasure hunter, and Bayley’s directed at Becky, specifically. There’s no doubt in the historian’s mind.

“Becks.”

The equally as delicate eyes shown in the Irish woman’s direction earn her notice. They’re careful, wise and promising. They expose her sorrows, her remorse, and her regret. To support her outwardly, Charlotte’s words are insightful:

“You don’t have to feel guilty for enjoying yourself,” it’s accompanied by a diluted smile ━ one that’s accepting yet wishing to change Becky’s mind.

On sight, despite the churning sourness in Becky’s stomach, she feels a laugh form in her throat. A moment of slight surprise, though, at the same time, a wonderance of how Charlotte knows. The laugh forces itself upwards and through her mouth. Chest shaking, as well. Her eyes flutter closed as she bows her head, ultimately lifting her chin to peer at Charlotte through her eyelashes. The epitome of shyness. Tenderness, in another light. Another sense of feeling lucky as all hell.

“How’d you know I was?”

Her smile grows without missing a beat.

“I know you better than you think,” her explanation is keen, even-toned. “And you know as well as I do that neither of them would want you to feel guilty over easing your mind. _Especially_ Bayley.”

There’s something in the way Charlotte says it. The way she so-knowingly stresses that the brunette, in particular, wouldn’t want her being pressured over it. That knowingness further pronounced in the way the blonde adds, “She’d be proud of you for finally trying.”

Becky’s mind floats back to her conversation with their navigator. How she’d been adamant ━ yet considerate ━ about the redhead trying to get back into Charlotte’s good graces. She remembers thinking that the historian was sleeping, too. She squints.

“Were you eavesdropping, Ms. Flair?” her eyebrows raise, hands moving to her hips, and a smirk surfaces on the other woman’s face.

“What if I was?” the dare is smooth, coolly and suggestive, but also simmered down to the point of being comforting in a serious conversation.

The treasure hunter nibbles her lower lip, tugging at the wound’s healing skin before releasing it. She exhales through her nostrils, feeling her woes drain from her body as Charlotte continues to look at her with a lightened, hopeful expression. One that speaks volumes through silence and visual begging that Becky listens to her. That she understands the weight of her words, and that she’s speaking the truth: neither Bayley nor Sasha would want her feeling down about relaxing. Given how much they’d been put through yesterday, even if time is crunched, they’d want her to clear her mind and stop acting on impulse. They’ll only get so far on adrenaline.

Her throat begins to grow sore as she relents, hands falling from her hips. Arms swaying by her sides there. She begins to nod, then, and her tongue wets her lips with a chuckle tripping out from between them. Frankly, she’d never deny that Charlotte is right; the historian has an uncanny inkling about her, and she always has. It’s something that keeps the redhead reeling, but it’s something impeccable that she’s oftentimes depended on. Even if she can’t speak what’s on her mind, Charlotte always knows. Before anything, she knows. Becky smiles at the woman in front of her. Immediately, it’s returned.

“You’re right,” she admits, timidly. “Not only about Bayley━about _them_ ━but… I’m in my head again.”

“Well, I meant it. Softy wouldn’t want you feeling this way.”

When she tilts her head to the side, her blonde hair catches a shine of light and causes her face to glow. A halo-like facet emphasizing her features. That permanent blush on her cheeks. The lines of her fond smile. All in all, it gets Becky to feel lighter. The addition of Bayley’s nickname strikes a chord, as well. Her teeth show, glistening with a beaming grin. No matter how much she intends on hiding the expression, it shows fully. She can’t hate it, though. Not one bit. Her chin lowers, tongue dragging across the fronts of her teeth as Charlotte waits.

“Pinky might have somethin’ to say about it,” the redhead smirks, looking up. “Once she sees your little...” Becky gestures to her own neck in order to show what she’s referring to, Charlotte half-heartedly rolling her eyes.

“I know, trust me.”

Their casual laughter dies down again, Becky ending it by clearing her throat. It’s Charlotte’s sign that she’s bound to follow, this time. Once she nods her head sideways, her guess is confirmed when her partner begins to walk forward.

With echoing steps, they exit the cave. They leave behind its comfort, its shelter and memories. They throw a mental “Goodbye” over their shoulders. Thrown to the waterfall shower, the creek, the frog, the fire, the mossy bed where they leave their bodies’ joint outline.

Careful steps are taken as they pass beyond the threshold, eyes adjusting to the fresh, morning light. It’s an orange tone, warming the rock beneath their soles standing atop the cave’s natural front porch. It overlooks the vast miles of trees, immediately below the ledge and for miles ahead of them. Disrupting a small section is the river from yesterday. That waterfall they escaped, leading down to a streaming rush of water that weaves between tree trunks. Winding this way and that until the shimmer fades off into the distance. Above them, birds soar and chirp happily. Their wings flap with grace, colors vibrant against the blue sky. The clear, blue sky that’s an after-storm effect, leaving the air sweet-scented and chilly, yet also warming with the sun unobstructed. Raising and tandem with passing time.

Becky breathes it all in, letting every ounce of it fill her lungs while it pushes the pessimism through her nose. Squeezing it from her veins, and clearing her mind. Charlotte smiles at the sound, looking at the woman standing next to her. Their hands brush, the historian nudging her partner’s pinky with her own. It gets the hunter’s attention. The blonde grins.

“Ready?”

The expression that the historian gives her is enough to provide an encouragement that’s so, _so_ needed. It’s enough to keep her going, and to keep her pushing through. Charlotte’s own brand of encouragement, quite frankly. A rarity, but a necessity. Now, belonging to Becky. The way ocean eyes sparkle, it’s obvious. It’s an exclusive appearance, and Charlotte’s smile widens at how involved the redhead appears. How mutually adoring, and ━ for once ━ hopeful.

So, with a final, deep breath, Becky grasps her backpack’s straps and gives her partner a genuine, shy smile. A declarative one, and something that says there’s no turning back ━ in every sense.

“Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Baysha, how I've missed you (and that cute little flower). And BECAUSE I've missed them, you'll see them again very soon. Charlynch's path is very close to crossing with Baysha's, so there's something to look forward to. 
> 
> Other than Baysha's confession of "I like you" (which reminds me of a little high-school game, yet Sasha is supposed to be this known mercenary, lmao), I think we struck some much-needed softness in this chapter. Like Charlotte consistently proving that she's going to help Becky learn what it takes and means to be optimistic. Becky is going to have some trouble with it, but she's trying. Next chapter is strongly evident of it. With Becky's attempts at being a better person for the both of them, Charlotte will, in time, voice her forgiveness. It's imperative to lock them together, once and for all.
> 
> Side note: The "Kiss me about it" banter was actually inspired by a Tumblr post. I didn't think I'd manage to fit something so goofy into the story, but here we are.
> 
> Looking at the story, in general, we're relatively close to the end. Which means shit's getting more packed, and I'm squeezing my brain to get every detail settled into it. WHICH MEANS that I'll be breaking again (this time as a precaution) after a few more chapters. It's annoying, I know, but I'm someone who would rather get chapters out to you quickly within little clusters before breaking and catching up. I'm not the "write and then post immediately, after three weeks of pause" type of person. I'm very impatient and the story captivates me as much as it captivates y'all who are reading it. 
> 
> Additionally, my mental health took a little nose-dive recently. Which I'm not always fond of being so open about solely because I don't want it to sound like an excuse for me not writing, however I think it explains a lot of what's happening with my dedication to writing. HOWEVER! I even more recently decided to make better choices again (for a while I was on top of being super healthy mentally, emotionally, and physically), so I'm getting back to that. It helps a lot. Alas, I'm working on it.
> 
> With that said, I have all chapters written up to the next break, and I'm already moving into the next section of it. We have a lot of cute Charlynch coming up. Way more banter, way more working together and piecing Avery's story together. Baysha, too. It'll be less soft with them -- what with being captured, and all -- but there will be tender moments, for sure. Their care for each other is evident. 
> 
> In less fun news, I wanted to quickly address the recent debacle with Rhea using a slur on a stream/the reaction to it/what it has to do with this story. Since I've had this story outlined/detailed for a while, I'm unable to switch her character or take her out since she's extremely vital to the plot -- nor can I shorten the upcoming involvements/scenes including her. My apologies, sincerely, because I know a lot of people are hurt even by seeing her name or face. I want you to know that your pain is valid. I can only hope that the overall story and Lacey's asshole self keep your focus more than Rhea's, not to mention our core four. If not, I respect whatever decision you make because, like I said, I know a lot of people are hurt. Either way, thanks for bearing this story with me whether your journey is truncated or continues fully.
> 
> With all that said, I'll be back soon-ish to post the next chapter. It's full of a lot of fun dialogue, if I do say so, myself. Hope all is well with everyone, and I hope to see you back.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone's well today and ready for some goodt-goodt dialogue. That's all I've got to say for the before-feature. Enjoy.

TUES., 8:36 A.M.

* * *

“Avery sure picked a nice island.”

Becky lifts her chin when she hears Charlotte’s compliment, seeing the blonde staring up at the treeline. Hands on her hips, eyes raised and sparkling. A faint grin curving her pink lips, puckered rather minutely. Enough to be seen, however. Her attitude overly enthralled while she slowly spins in place, primarily observing the scenery surrounding them. The thick, fern leaves. The bites along them, caterpillars and worms having a field day. The red flowers gathered in bunches atop moss covering nearby boulders. The sunlight hitting each speck of foliage and creating yellow patterns on them. Glares, too, as the leaves shine with leftover dew from the early morning. Most of all, the historian observes the waterfall set in front of them. The trickling of rainwater falling from the shining, brown rocks. The cave partly behind that waterfall, as well ━ A.K.A. where they’re next passing through. Where, after, they’ll wind through rocky obstructions in order to reach New Devon’s entrance. The entrance that _would’ve been_ mere yards away from the bridge’s end.

The Irish woman’s hands stay cupped as she briefly glances at Charlotte, previously sipping fresh water from a stream they’d stopped at. Crouched next to it, enjoying the lukewarm contents with a clearness they haven’t otherwise found. Besides within last night’s cave, that is. With each gulp, it slithers down her throat happily, warding off its parchedness that gathered while they slept. Their last stop on finishing their “morning routine,” or a half-assed version of it. Minutes ago, the pair of women delayed their imminent search for their friends as they took a moment to relieve themselves. An unfortunate task whenever you’re found in the wilderness, Becky rolled her eyes. Necessary, but annoying.

Nevertheless, Charlotte is right: despite the trade-offs that are the least bit hygienic, Avery sure as hell chose the prettiest island he could find. The most detailed, the most colorful. The most bountiful in terms of waterfalls, and flowers, and vegetation, and everything in-between. Sure, he defiled it with traps and heart-wrenching history, but no plan is perfect, Becky muses. In fact, it’s somewhat symbolic. How something unbelievably gorgeous is also intoxicating to the point of destruction. How looks can be deceiving, much like a pirate’s life. Fulfillment on the surface, but desolate within. _Volatile_ within.

The treasure hunter thinks of her parents and their demise, how they were the makers of their own destruction. She swallows thickly, then bows her head to see her reflection in the trickling water. To disrupt the image, she reaches down with bowled palms to take another sip of the liquid.

It clears her senses, but not as much as the subtle humming from Charlotte does. Her sing-song tune, waiting for Becky to rejoin her at the base of the waterfall. At the cusp of its pooling lake, flowing into the mouth of the cave behind that cascading water. She’s enjoying herself, the redhead imagines. She seems lighter today. Like there’s a glow about her, or a new personality. Becky hasn’t seen this version of the blonde since their first venture together. She hasn’t seen the bubbly personality like it used to be. Back when Charlotte was untarnished, when she was free and unafflicted by gruesome depictions and, quite frankly, death. Back when Becky hadn’t hurt her, that first time. They had the world clasped between their hands, and, until now, the Irish woman thought she’d never feel it again. She thought she’d never feel what it’s like to hold something so near and dear to her chest. So immaculate that it would ultimately force the negative thoughts from her mind.

Admittedly, she misses her parents, and, admittedly, she still questions their story. Where things went so, _so_ wrong. Where their life together took such a bad turn that everything fell apart, despite them having the world at their fingertips. And, truly, Becky knows she caught a taste of that detrimental outcome once she fucked up with Charlotte. Once she left her stranded on that dock, and had to live with the reoccurring thought of “What the fuck did I do?” Solely to go on, alone, and acquire another treasure. Another tangible antique that would otherwise leave her unfulfilled. Not as happy as having a lover would. There’s no question she always had a companion in Paige, but never a warm body to sleep next to. Not in a deeper way. No matter what, there was always that hole in her chest. Her heart, missing its other half.

And even if Charlotte wasn’t built to be the missing piece that completed her, the misfortune Becky bestowed upon herself when she abandoned the historian was massive. It was the single most largest fuck-up she’s had to deal with. Not a simple _“oops”_ moment, yet a scenario that would weigh on her mind for years to come. Even when she was smiling with Paige beside her, trying to relax between ventures, Charlotte was always on her mind. The memories would make her turn a tad more frigid. They’d make her snap a bit easier. Drink a bottle or two more. Keep to herself for longer periods of time. She knows that her best friend noticed in more instances than she’d actually questioned it, and she knows that Paige wondered why Charlotte’s existence clouded Becky more than anyone else’s. If she’d asked, directly, the hunter isn’t sure she would’ve been able to answer. The blonde was simply… _different._ A permanent version of home that Paige couldn’t provide, as they always kept moving. As Paige wasn’t the least bit settled down, herself. Charlotte was softer, more grounded, more gentle. The personification of sunshine. A breed of human that Becky never knew.

After she messed up, she figured she’d blown it all. That she’d end up unfulfilled like her parents, simply waiting for her time in this world to end. For her chapter to close with a bang.

But, now, she sees her second chance. Her second chance is yet again clasped between her hands. The world is, more importantly. She may question her parents’ story, she may miss them, and she may have pessimistic thoughts about how they seemed so put-together yet conclusively let their life crumble through their fingertips. However, Becky refuses to let their end be her own. She won’t fuck up again. No way.

Lifting her eyes away from her reflection in the clear water, she looks at Charlotte. Her hands shake away the remnants of water, pushing herself upwards with palms pressed to her thighs.

“He did,” she finally answers, taking a breath. “Would be a nice vacation spot, huh?”

Charlotte’s heart flutters. She bows her head without turning around, trying to wipe the blush from her cheeks before she’s able to face the other woman.

“If we ever came back here━”

“Oh, there’s a ‘we’?”

At the interruption, Charlotte’s mouth opens. This time, she turns to Becky to see that the redhead’s body language mimics her own, both women with their hands on their hips. The historian’s mouth remains agape, entertained by Becky’s smugness and raised eyebrows. A curt chuckle trips out from between her lips once they seal for a moment. Evidently formulating a good rebuttal, and being confirmed when she tries to turn the tables on her partner.

 _“You_ implied there’s a ‘we,’” her eyes narrow.

“I simply stated it’s a nice vacation spot,” Becky shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing. “Didn’t say for whom.”

The blonde’s jaw shifts, hints of a smile lingering over her features. A lightheartedness, obviously. A daring sight, in some aspect, each of them trying to get the best of one another.

“Okay, then,” she plays into it. “If _I_ ever came back━”

“No, I like the ‘we’ better.”

This interruption is more pondering, batting Charlotte back and forth. Like she’d been trying to lure her into a trap, but decisively opted to admit that it’s something she wishes for. Charlotte pauses when she sees Becky’s teasing smirk, rolling her eyes with the same grin she’s been wearing for a while. Internally, she refrains from agreeing. From giving Becky a rather shy “Me too” that would end the conversation prematurely. Either way, the Irish woman can tell she agrees. She can see it in ocean eyes that glisten with flirtatiousness. With that identical adoration and love.

“As I was saying…” it’s huffed out, telling Becky to stop interrupting. “I’d need more clothes, blankets, a tent, and a pillow. Moss isn’t the best mattress,” she makes a vague gesture with her hand, waving it toward the nearby greenery.

The ending is dull. In any other case, the redhead would snort at her bluntness. She’d agree, too. Here, there’s one aspect of last night’s sleep that she’s fixated on.

“And I’m not the best blanket?”

The question somewhat catches Charlotte off-guard. It’s not shown outwardly, on the other hand. She simply rubs her lips together, releasing her right hand from her hip and brushing some of her hair behind her ear. A distraction, Becky decides.

“I wouldn’t say that,” the woman mutters, earning a new smirk.

Becky chuckles at Charlotte’s face of embarrassment, though playfully so. How the historian doesn’t want to be so forward, yet she can’t help it. Neither can the treasure hunter, in all sincerity, but it’s becoming a game they play. The objective being to poke holes in each other’s resolve until their admissions flow freely and they’re left flustered. Red-cheeked and biting the tips of their tongues. Something that the blonde currently takes to, staring at Becky who ends their miniature conversation with a knowing hum.

She approaches where her partner waits by the cave’s opening, ready to go. Once she’s merely five steps away, she has to resist the urge to kiss the blonde again. A regular occurrence since last night, though they’ve walked perhaps twenty steps from their previous shelter. Each time she turns in Charlotte’s direction, she has to resist the same temptation. She has to take a breath and focus on the foliage around them. The events ahead, although those musings normally take her into unwanted, negative territory. Perhaps she should feel grateful for being distracted by the woman in front of her. Perhaps she should melt into it, and use it to her advantage. With the way Charlotte keeps looking at her, it wouldn’t be difficult.

Becky clears her throat, smiling cheekily.

“Shall we?” her voice lowers for the occasion, nodding toward the cave’s entrance.

“Lead the way, Captain.”

Contrary to other times, the statement is more seductive than anything. It’s obvious, too. Unmistakable. Becky wonders how she’s going to make it through the remaining portion of this trip if the blonde is going to be doing that, throughout. If she’s going to be using her overall appeal to derail Becky’s thoughts, or her periodic, smug attitude. Thinking back, the redhead knows that it’s Charlotte’s way of firing back. That it’s her way of getting the last laugh. Especially considering the woman’s blush from when Becky teased her with a smirk, not even a minute ago.

And Charlotte knows that she’s won this round. She sees the way Becky’s lips twitch slightly. The way her eyes blink in a split second of being stunned. The way she shakes her head when she walks past her, ready to move ahead of the historian. Not too far, but enough to keep the distance. The blonde smirks in her own way, following into the darkened, misty cave.

“I wonder how they’re doing.”

For the first time, Becky doesn’t hinder her own nervousness. She doesn’t stop it from flowing between them, echoing through the tunnel where they walk. It’s dark, so Charlotte can’t see the way brown eyes cloud with sadness. Also because she’s a step or two behind the other woman. With that said, she doesn’t have to be facing the treasure hunter to know how saddened her voice sounds. How hollow, almost. Completely wondering, but there are still traces of self-blame within. The historian doesn’t delve into it. She doesn’t call Becky out on it, either, or expose her clear regret. Using an ongoing theme, she decides to keep the mood light. To keep Becky’s mind at ease in hopes that she can get back to their playful tendencies.

 _“I_ mostly wonder if Sasha’s taken out Lacey’s whole militia yet,” Charlotte chuckles once they’re moving side by side. “She doesn’t do the whole ‘animal in cage’ thing well.”

A laugh is shared as they exit the short cave, emerging from the boulder’s other side. They’re now in a clearing. Matted grass as the surface beneath their feet, mossy boulders lying around, vines and broken trees overhanging above. Straight ahead, they see a few slabs of rock. Stone steps, like on the first island. They’ll have to climb them, within minutes. For now, the two women are left walking slowly. Like they’re trying to enjoy their waning time together. The time that grows thin, as they approach New Devon and likewise the danger they’ll probably face once they get there.

Becky thinks to herself about Charlotte’s words. How the blonde seemingly knows the mercenary’s personality rather vividly. A timidity takes over her features as she side-eyes her partner, watching Charlotte take in the sights, like the birds that fly overhead with an odd sound.

“You know Sasha well? Besides the obvious,” against her wishes to obstruct Charlotte’s intake of the surrounding land, she breaks her concentration with underlying intentions.

“Kind of, I guess,” the historian doesn’t pick up on them. “Once we left the village in Nepal, she stuck around for a bit as I healed little by little, then continued to visit, afterwards. She even wanted to move closer,” she turns to Becky as they walk. “I think she just couldn’t let it go. What happened back in Shambhala. I think she felt it was her duty to make up for it,” a tiny smile turns her lips upward. “She’s softer than she admits.”

The admission piques Becky’s curiosity. It reminds her of a question she’d asked Sasha yesterday. Before the first gunfight, and before they even left camp. Something that the mercenary hounded her for, and she’s surprised it hadn’t been brought up again. It’s also something that the Irish woman remembers wanting to ask Charlotte about. Here, she doesn’t bite her tongue.

“I have a question, and it’s going to be kind of random.”

“As opposed to most other conversations?” she quirks an eyebrow.

A mocking face is made at the question, Charlotte giving her partner a smirk. It doesn’t dismantle Becky’s thoughts, however. She’s genuinely curious about it, judgment based upon how both the historian and mercenary speak of each other. How protective they are, and how connected they seem. The redhead worries at her lower lip, taking a breath before voicing what’s been on her mind since Charlotte recommended the purple-haired woman back in Oslo.

“There’s nothing between you and Sasha, right?” it’s small, spoken childishly with eyes that prove she knows how foolish the wonder may seem. “Nothing like… _that.”_

The other woman cackles. She can’t help it, truly. The reaction is immediate, too, stunning Becky whose mouth goes slack in a small way. Charlotte watches her shoulders slump out of her peripherals, having to clear her throat and bow her head.

“Sorry,” Charlotte’s apology muffles another laugh, “I didn’t mean for that to come out. No, she’s just a friend.”

At first, Becky accepts it. There’s a brief nod of her head, looking more like she’s merely swishing the answer around in her mind without taking it as a valid response. When she next speaks, it’s tip-toeing.

“‘Just a friend’ now, or always?”

Her ever-growing curiosity ━ now obviously laced with something deeper ━ gets Charlotte to stop in her tracks. Becky continues walking for another five steps, keeping them apart by a good chunk of distance. The redhead tries her hardest to keep away from squinted eyes and a tilted head, blonde hair swaying with the breeze as Charlotte’s face brightens in an entertained manner. A digging smile on her face to boot. Becky presses her tongue to her inner cheek, thinking that it’s not going as differently with the historian than it did with Sasha.

“Did she say something to you?” the blonde’s smug grin doesn’t fade, putting her hands on her hips as they stand in the middle of the clearing.

“Is… there something _to_ say?” Becky counters, cautious about her words but remaining interested in the replies.

“No,” blue-green eyes squint further, smile widening. “Don’t worry.”

A scoff follows. A forced one, at that.

“Why does everyone think I’m worried about it?” now, it’s Becky’s turn to be amused, even if it’s farce.

Charlotte drags her tongue against the flats of her back teeth. Her eyebrows raise when she’s faced by Becky’s facade of pretending. Her mask of faux passiveness. She can tell that the redhead is happy to have the information she was seeking with ulterior motives, and she’s happy to get out of the conversation without being teased about it. As far as Charlotte is concerned, she’s not letting Becky leave the clearing without gaining something out of it, as well.

“Okay, what if… I changed my mind?” the blonde plays coy. “What if I told you we had a fling, back then? Then what?”

Much to her interest, Becky’s mouth opens and closes. Initially, she has no rebuttal. No excuse or explanation as to what her reaction would be, or how she’d feel. But, suddenly, Becky seems to catch onto her game. She seems to understand what the blonde is doing, and she puts on a brave face with her chin lifting a fraction.

“It doesn’t matter. You told me there’s never been anything between you two, so,” it’s punctuated with the treasure hunter turning to walk away, thinking she’s outsmarted Charlotte and ended the conversation on her own terms.

But she didn’t. Her partner doesn’t follow, though she allows Becky to get two more steps toward the rocky slabs before she stops the redhead from leaving.

“I didn’t say those words, exactly,” the sentence is coolly, careless and neither here nor there as Becky stills in place. “I told you there’s nothing to say. Doesn’t mean there was never anything there.”

She sees the other woman stiffen ahead. Right before Becky twists her body so they’re face to face again. A certain dumbfoundedness in her attitude, creasing her forehead as Charlotte raises her eyebrows in challenge. The historian even shrugs one shoulder, making her point. A motion that causes the Irish woman to believe her.

“So, there _was_ something?” she doesn’t sound mad, nor does she sound upset, but mostly in disbelief.

Charlotte purses her lips, crossing her arms.

“You said it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it does,” it’s given through a shaky laugh before she can keep it held in, and her partner smirks hard, eyebrow quirked. “That’s… that’s not what I meant,” she tries to cover it up, looking flustered.

“Why is it so hard for you to admit that you’re worried? I thought we went over this,” gentility takes over her features and her movements as she approaches slowly. “Stay open with me,” she comes to a standstill, a measly foot away. “Like last night,” her fingers push a few strands of stray hair away from Becky’s forehead.

Her jaw shifts, bowing her head in front of Charlotte. A brief struggle ensues. A mental battle of wanting to stay open but returning to old habits. The kind fingers on her cheek brush against her skin, causing her forearms to acquire a short round of goosebumps. Eventually, those fingers move to below her chin and lift it carefully. She willfully looks at Charlotte, earning a smile. Her lips seal.

“Alright, I admit…” her voice is quiet, “I was nervous there was something between you, even if it was in the past.”

“Why?”

Becky chews her inner cheek. Her partner notices, tilting her head to the side.

“Come on,” Charlotte whispers, flashing her a pair of convincing, doe-like eyes that Becky normally melts into.

Just like she does here, really. She wets her lips in thought, looking beyond Charlotte and focusing on the scenery while being honest.

“I guess there will always be some feeling of undeserving,” her gaze shifts to Charlotte, seeing her frown. “Like, why choose me? Why not someone who’s more apt to change? To be open, like you always want.”

“I like to believe I’ve already changed you, apt or not,” she smiles tenderly. “We’re both going to make a lot of mistakes, Becks. Some mistakes worse than others,” a shrug comes with it. “That doesn’t mean we’re undeserving. Just means we’re human.”

Brown eyes stare at her. Conflicted as ever, from what Charlotte can tell. With the hunter’s desolate, back-and-forth struggle shading her features, the blonde decides to continue. At the same time, she gently grabs her hands, swaying them between their bodies while leaning closer.

“I meant it when I said you need to let me help carry whatever baggage you think you have,” the historian cranes her neck forward to kiss her partner’s temple. “And, if it makes you feel any better, yours is the only baggage I’m willing to carry,” her teasing comment earns a playful eye-roll, Charlotte’s smirk resurfacing.

“That question I asked… it stays between us,” Becky gives her a pointed look while feeling her hands drop back to her sides, hearing a giggle. “I mean it, Charlotte. She already got a big head about it when I asked her.”

“You were really worried enough to ask her,” it’s more of a statement than a question, astounded by the Irish woman’s heavy intrigue and her worries. “Wow, I’m flattered.”

The other woman forces a dramatic sigh, turning around. She shakes her head as she proceeds to walk, approaching the stone slabs. Charlotte follows, watching Becky climb onto the first step and doing the same.

“What’d she say about it?” the question is grunted out, the historian’s aches prominent when she uses her muscles more.

“Oh, you know, she just laughed and basically walked off,” her voice is dull, scrambling up to the last step. “Figured she wanted me to stew in it for a while longer.”

Charlotte snickers at Becky’s obvious annoyance toward the mercenary. Sounds like Sasha, for sure. She doesn’t let the topic fester as she joins Becky atop the final slab, the next stretch of land moving beneath a natural, stone archway and into another clearing. The redhead continues to walk mindfully.

“Do _I_ have to worry about _you_ and Sasha?” the smirk on her face is everlasting, and Becky’s nose scrunches in oddity as she turns to face her partner.

“What?”

“I saw your little moment of eye contact yesterday before we reached the treasury building,” it’s casual, like she’s simply retelling a story. “It was a bit intense. I thought Bay and I would have to give you two a minute.”

Becky remembers it clearly. How Sasha had been hanging above thousands of feet of open air, held onto the spindle jutting out from an old building. Jumping to the ledge where Becky caught her right at the precise second, only to pull the mercenary onto the wooden deck where they waited. Her arm stayed around the purple-haired woman a bit longer than intended, neither of them noticing until, once they did, they forcibly separated. They almost winced at the contact, Becky having to clear her throat.

In this instance, she rolls her eyes at Charlotte’s teasing.

“I’m off the market.”

She achieves the upper hand, getting Charlotte to blush while biting the tip of her tongue. Even if unintentional, Becky successfully brushed off her playful jabs. However, she’s already stuck in the idea of Sasha’s cunning persona. How ━ even on the day Becky met her ━ she’d been well-grounded in terms of making her head spin. Sasha easily matches people, and she’s very good at creating interesting territory. A friction-filled territory, in fact. Soon, Becky begins to ramble to herself.

“I can’t help it if she gets off on making everyone so flustered,” the sudden statement is rapid, eyes widened. “It’s remarkable how successful she is, too,” she adds beneath her breath.

Charlotte hums, pursing her lips before saying, “I’ll tell her you said so.”

“Don’t you dare,” Becky waves a finger in her direction, lowering her hand afterwards. “Besides, I think she’s turned her focus to Bayley, above anyone,” her own smirk makes another appearance, and Charlotte feels inclined to agree.

“It’s about time,” the historian nods as they tread along the clearing, another waterfall coming into view. “Surprised it took them longer than a few hours with those looks.”

“Tell me about it,” she mutters.

“Oh, you have _no_ right saying that about them when you took _years,”_ her grin is incredulous, amused and pointed as she turns to Becky whose mouth drops open. “Even then, _I_ had to make the first move.”

“Wait a second, lass,” her laugh is targeted, raspy while waving her hand at Charlotte. “No. You were pissed at me for _ages—”_

 _“‘Ages’?”_ she all but barks out, beaming.

“I had no choice but to wait!”

“Mm, keep telling yourself that.”

“Plus, I was supposed to be dead, thank you very much,” Becky explains, clawing to defend herself while speaking animatedly. “If I called, they could’ve tracked me, or━or found you. I wouldn’t have been able to live with that.”

“How could you live with anything if you were ‘supposed to be dead’?” she blinks rapidly at Becky, being the face of innocence.

“Ha-ha,” the hunter rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Her partner smiles at Becky’s distress in regards to the teasing. In regards to being put on the spot and questioned repeatedly. Especially as they both know it’s all in good fun, keeping their minds occupied. In fact, Charlotte keeps things serene and calming as they approach the waterfall. She reaches for Becky’s hand, entwining their fingers and watching Becky smile while looking down to their small embrace. Her thumb rubs against the historian’s, the two stopping at the waterfall’s splashing water at its bottom, the pooling lake that drifts backwards into a second, hidden cave. This time, there’s no spot to enter without getting soaked. Not even if they were to hug the wall and glide against it.

Through an unspoken agreement and a shared nod, the two cover their heads as much as they can while walking beneath the water. Becky scrunches her nose at the cold temperature of it, being chillier than the stream she drank from, minutes ago. Once they’re inside the cave, they pause to wring out their hair.

“At least we took a shower today,” the redhead pulls her shirt from her skin, hoping it dries as they continue to walk.

“I’d kill for a towel right now,” Charlotte runs a hand through her hair, letting its damp strands fall back into place.

“You can use some blank pages from my journal.”

“What the hell would that do?” she laughs hard at the suggestion, Becky going wide-eyed in front of her.

“I’m just trying to help out, woman!”

Her smile remains as she reaches for Becky’s hand again. At first, the Irish woman merely stares at her. A frown on her face, her eyebrows knitted together in partial refusal to take the offering. The sign of peace, moreover, after Charlotte is through teasing her. _Again._ Realistically, she can’t hold out for long. Their fingers slide past each other and tangle again, Charlotte humming in contentedness as they follow the cave’s interior bend. The treasure hunter nibbles her lower lip, toying with the healing skin as she thinks. A tiny breath is taken in once something comes to mind, briefly turning to Charlotte while carefully walking.

“For the record, what would you have done if I _had_ called you during those years I was away?” her eyes glisten when she asks historian, lips turned into a tiny pout that’s more perplexed than anything.

“I… don’t know,” she’s honest, never thinking about it before, and Becky nods slowly. “For months, I wished you would. It took me so long to realize that you weren’t going to,” it’s given with a sad, half-smile. “A few times, I wanted to find your number somehow, just to call and hear your voice before probably hanging up,” a solemn, quiet laugh makes her bow her head. “It sounds silly.”

“No, not silly,” Becky is quick to reassure her, getting Charlotte to turn to her. “I thank you for telling me.”

“Why?” she feels the treasure hunter’s thumb rub against hers another time.

“Because… I don’t know,” she squints one eye, thinking. “I s’pose it makes me feel, like, even though you were pissed at me, I still meant somethin’. We were in a bad spot, but it didn’t erase the impact, you know?” a slanted grin is shown. “The impact I had.”

“Never,” Charlotte says. “No matter what… nothing would’ve erased that. Nothing ever will,” she smiles. “That’s what I keep trying to tell you.”

“I’m sorry it takes me so long to listen all the time,” her response is sheepish, mildly uncomfortable in her own head.

“You’re learning,” by the sound of the historian’s voice, she’s comforted. “You’ve been through a lot, Becky. You deserve all the time in the world to adjust.”

The other woman tries her hardest to understand. She chews her inner cheek, evading Charlotte’s eyes. There’s a specific tug on her hand that causes her to walk closer to her partner, their forearms brushing slightly. At the feeling, she can tell that the blonde is silently pleading with her to keep positive about everything. In time, they’ll be better. _She’ll_ be better. Becky can almost taste the promise within the air between them. In the way ocean eyes look at her, as well, and study her profile.

All before Charlotte looks away, facing forward and walking around the bend of another clearing. To their right, they catch a glimpse of the rubbled bridge. The end that they would’ve driven upon yesterday, had its body not dropped them into rushing water. Charlotte hums.

“At least we’re back on track,” it’s spoken through an exhale, Becky nodding.

To the left, the cobblestone continues. A path leading to New Devon, from what they can see through the thinning trees. There are more obstructions in the distance, though they don’t have enough of sight-line to see them fully. It spikes their curiosity and a spurt of caution, at the same time. They know that, in the near future, they’ll be facing various traps set by Avery to ward off intruders. Not to mention the wall they’ll have to somehow scale in order to make it into New Devon. Frankly, they doubt there will be an open gate willingly allowing them into the premises. Any doors or gates built years prior were likely collapsed, or, if the colonists ever made their way here, they’d be barricaded in retaliation.

Becky shifts her jaw, feeling Charlotte’s fingers against hers and taking a breath to calm herself.

Until they catch a better glimpse of what’s in front of that guarding wall, that is. Until they turn the left corner, around a thick patch of trees, only to encounter the first warning against trespassers.

In front of them and feet into the air hangs a misshapen, metal cage, rusted to an orange color but keeping itself together and its contents inside: a brown-tinted skeleton, exposed to the outside elements but set to rot within the compartment. An obvious story being told with the scene, as whoever was hoisted up into the cage was left to die. Left to suffer completely, be poked at, starved, you name it. No more comforting is the cage’s size and shape, being only wide enough in diameter for a full-grown adult to turn around. A skinny head area, a broad midsection, and a thinning foot room. Resembling the shape of a tailor’s mannequin. Clearly, the only viable positions within the containment would be standing while crying for help, or sitting with one’s legs dangling to the ground. A sign of submission, or giving up. Even so, the cage’s bottom hangs approximately ten feet above their heads. Kept in place by a wrought-iron loop anchored into a thick, wooden beam that stretches horizontally until its hinge connects with a vertical piece of lumber. All in all, the structure is roughly fifteen feet tall, resembling the drawn shape of the elementary-school game of Hangman. A backwards seven, although scarier. Far more chilling.

If the existence of it or symbolism wasn’t enough of a warning, the rectangular sign nailed to the cage’s frontside would be: _“TRAITOR,”_ carved into the wooden board with anger and firm slashes.

A subtle breeze filters through the space. The sound of the cage’s creaking hinges fills their silence. Both women stare up at the skeleton, its hollow eyes boring into theirs. Its ruptured skull leaning against one of the rusted, metal wrappings. Jaw unhinged, hanging by its left side. Legs all but in a pile, one arm slung through a square hole in the cage. Powerless, even if their soul remained.

“That’d be an awful way to die.”

Becky sees the faint shake of Charlotte’s head before she walks away, the muttered statement not lacking in the section of trepidation. As if the sight became too much to stomach, so quickly. So much that the blonde had to leave before it truly affected her.

“Tell me about it,” before following, the redhead swallows hard with her chin still lifted. “Must be one of the rebels.”

Once it’s in the open, she nods to herself before moving to where Charlotte walked away. She’s in the process of gaining on the historian, rounding the final bend separating them from New Devon’s front gate, only to hear her partner make a dreadful discovery.

“And... I just found the rest of them.”

When Becky catches up, everything gets a bit more real. A bit more pungent and ghastly. That single, caged skeleton paling in comparison to the fresh portrait in front of them. Instantly, every beautiful facet about the island is forgotten. The shrubbery, the blue sky above them, the birds, the waterfalls, the cobblestone that lines the gate. All flown from their minds as they’re stuck in place, staring straight ahead with their jaws slack. Not too much, and not too severe. Not portraying awe, but monotonous terror at the barbaric sight.

Ahead of them are dozens upon dozens of the same backwards seven. The same cages, hung from their ends. The same contents within, as well. Copy and pasted left and right, scattered around the stretch of clearing in front of New Devon’s stone wall and barricaded gate. Hangman upon Hangman. Some skeletons are more intact than others within their resting place. At least four have fallen through the cracks in their cages completely. Ultimately finding home in the cobblestone below, two skulls rolling away from their landing site. A pair of cages at the far end are crashed to the ground, their anchors once upon a time giving out and letting their contents free of the torture.

It’s an absolute massacre, and both women stand there, lips parted, mildly terrified and almost speechless.

“That’s one way to quash a rebellion,” breaking the tension, Becky’s whisper proves how floored she truly feels.

“Judging by what we know of Avery’s character, I’m starting to think this was always the plan.”

Charlotte’s voice is flat, equally as unnerved. The Irish woman raises her eyebrows at the theory, pursing her lips at the depiction in front of them before adding onto it.

“Lure them to paradise, promise them freedom away from a corrupt government, get them riled up, and bye-bye, birdie.”

The blonde swallows hard, eyes momentarily watering. She wonders if any of these rebels could be the man who wrote the book she took from Libertalia’s pub. If his fate was sealed in one of these cages, left to be picked off by vultures after flat-out starving to death. She also wonders if his expecting wife suffered the same ordeal, or what her punishment would’ve been. Charlotte worries at her lower lip, bowing her head for a moment and shaking it off.

“It’s horrible,” the statement is scratchy once she speaks.

Becky breathes through her nostrils. A sigh, more like.

“Piracy.”

“You have to admit that this is horrible, even for pirates,” Charlotte looks at her, eyebrows knitted together. “It’s inhumane.”

“Yeah, it really is,” without facing her partner, Becky’s chest swells and she rubs her lips together in pause. “Shall we move on?”

The other woman nods without hesitation, then side-eyes the first wooden structure that they pass. She’s obviously damaged, in some way, by the memories held within the scenery. The questions, the lack of answers. Likewise, Becky doesn’t exactly want to dwell on it. If it was up to her, she’d subject neither of them to this kind of unknowingness. So, with that in mind, the Irish woman tries making the transition as smooth as possible, not wanting to expose Charlotte’s teetering mind to something so gruesome. Her own, either. Especially not after the wonderful night they’d shared. How they worked on bandaging their wounds little by little. How they woke up so sweetly, so lighthearted, this morning. She can’t afford to lose that casual banter, nor their weightless attitudes. Not yet, at least. Not when the day is just beginning, and they have yet to find their friends or even relatively figure out their whereabouts. Becky huffs.

“The gate’s destroyed,” she throws the statement over her shoulder ━ though it’s obvious from its rubbled looks. “We’ll have to jump to the top shelf there,” she points to a stone slab against the upper wall.

Before Charlotte can formulate a measly protest against the idea, the hunter is already in motion. She’s already in her element, slinking up a broken, stone pillar in the middle of the courtyard. Though, the historian’s forehead creases even further in wariness once she sees what Becky’s next move is: jumping onto one of the metal cages.

“I hate to do this, but…”

With an odd-sounding creak, Becky dangles from its underside. Fingers curled onto the bottom bar, legs swaying with the motion as the skeleton inside the compartment rocks with the random disturbance. Luckily, its structure holds up under the extra weight. With a contorting, scrunching face, Becky climbs upwards and onto the horizontal beam above. She’s settled approximately fifteen feet above the ground. Arms outstretched, keeping herself balanced with her right foot in front of her left. A tiny amount of creaking is heard, but not too much. Not enough to stir Charlotte’s worries anymore than they’re already existing. It doesn’t erase those existing worries, either.

“Those things don’t look sturdy,” from the ground, Charlotte voices her concerns.

Although, it comes out as more of a lecture than a grievance. Her hands are on her hips, too, even if Becky doesn’t pay attention. Of all the crazy things the Irish woman has done, she’s standing atop wooden beams that look like they’re held together by scrapwood and toothpaste. Bracing cages of skeletons, if that wasn’t enough.

“Looks aren’t everything.”

She’s bound to stare at Becky in further lecture before, against the redhead’s desire to prove her point, an adjacent beam cracks beneath the fresh pressure. It emanates from its tip, where the cage is anchored into, sounding menacing and ready to shatter. Becky nearly falls, in the process, though manages to grasp onto the solid portion of the beam in order to pull herself back up. A sigh of relief is exhaled, meanwhile attempting to ignore the burning gaze on her profile. The pointed stare exuding from the ground area, matching her throbbing ego.

“You were saying?” Charlotte sounds smug about it.

The Irish woman ducks her head partly, nipping the conversation in the ass with a quickness about it.

“I was saying to be careful because they aren’t sturdy.”

Her partner gives the recovery an eye-roll. It’s a short-lived, internal debate that tails the motion, ending with her following the other woman. She does it carefully, tactfully, and follows Becky’s movements to an exact precision. Running along three beams, each time getting closer to the wall. Each time getting closer to their destination. All while listening to the treasure hunter grunting ahead, especially when she nearly smacks head-first into New Devon’s outer, stone wall. Charlotte snickers at the sound, getting a modest, running start so she can lunge to the ledge where Becky stands flat against the stone bricks.

“How’d you get here so quick?” she frowns at the historian, earning a quirked eyebrow.

“I was careful.”

Becky’s features fall flat. She makes a mocking face, right before shaking it off and outstretching her arms above her head. Charlotte does the same on Becky’s right, only a foot away, both women pulling themselves onto the wall’s top portion by using their full strength. By powering through their soreness, gritting their teeth, and using the toes of their boots to scramble upwards. Once they’re situated, their elbows pull them further onto the dirty stone, army crawling three feet deeper onto the surface with deep breaths exiting their mouths. They stay on their stomachs, exhales fogging the pieces of gravel beneath their chins. Until the moment’s weight creeps into their bones, at least.

Finally, with a day of mishaps and hardships behind them, they’ve reached the recently discovered New Devon. They’ve reached the place they’ve longed for. The place they caught their initial glimpse of while they stood high above the treasury, peeking over the mountains surrounding this paradise. Before Rhea shot down the tower and they were separated. It’s taken them blood, sweat, and tears to get here, but they’ve done it. Becky shudders, lifting her gaze to look at the city.

Immediately, confirmation comes: it’s nothing short of a paradise. A paradise that’s currently flooded with water, although not taking away from its gorgeous stature. There are several mansions on both their left and right, most of which are sunken into the foggy liquid and covered with green moss and vines. Most of which are collapsed, too, at least on one or two sides. Their roofs are the same terracotta as the Libertalia houses, mixed with the regal appeal of the higher district's establishments. There are decals on the outer walls, showing off their high honor. Through the green tints of both the algae-infested water and mossy blankets, they can tell the houses’ exteriors are a sleek eggshell color, and the windows are huge. In fact, everything about them is larger than life. Screaming of wealth and money. The houses, themselves, are each the size of two treasury buildings shoved into one. Two or three modern-day gymnasiums melted together, then with an upper level. Give or take another floor, after that.

There’s one house, in particular, that stands out amongst the rest. It’s even bigger than the others, situated on the peak of a hill. It’s stationed at the far back of the town, up a few sets of wide stairs and past a decorative, wrought-iron fence. Canons line its frontside, whether they’re decorations or if they’d been used in earlier years. The double-doors are at least fifteen feet tall, too. This house, unlike the others, is non-flooded. Completely upright, uncollapsed for the majority, and being very inviting. Very suspicious, at the same time.

Despite that, Becky bites the tip of her tongue at the forming smile growing against her mouth. The dumbfoundedness of it. The insanity of it, moreover. A result of suddenly realizing that they’re making history, stepping into a realm that no one’s ever known about. Following Avery’s trail further than most people, as well. Knowing, without a doubt, that none of his story has been a hoax. Libertalia seriously existed, and now they know that Libertalia had a sister city. A more expensive city. Perhaps an even bigger rarity.

Her amusement and enthrallment don’t last long. Realistically, they’re collectively ended when there’s a rustling against her back. A tug on her shoulder straps as she glances to see Charlotte rummaging through her backpack with determination.

“May I help you?”

She gets her answer once the historian is grasping the small pair of binoculars between her hands. Fingers curled around them perfectly, the lenses pushed to her eyes as she looks out at the scenery in front of them. The woman pans around while Becky admires her, smiling softly as the blonde hums at what she sees.

“Looks like a hole’s been blown through the outer wall back there,” she gives it a vague point, then re-grasps the binoculars. “Must’ve flooded the dam. Purposely or accidentally… we’ll have to find out.”

The object is lowered within her hands, this time noticing that she’s been stared at. She looks at Becky, the redhead smirking shyly.

“You’ve gotten good at this.“

It’s like her own words spooked her. Once they’re out in the open, Becky looks away and pretends that it’s an absentminded motion. Charlotte can tell that it’s not, however. There’s too much of a jump in her body language. A tenseness in her shoulders, too. It’s misplaced, in Charlotte’s opinion. She’s happy to know that she’s improved in the area of something that Becky loves. She’s happy to know that she’s impressing her, in all honesty. This is something the Irish woman depends on to live. It’s something amazing, and mind-consuming. Even if, sometimes, that becomes a bad thing.

The historian admits that this adventure has been nothing short of thrilling. At points, it was dangerous ━ as expected ━ and, at points, she wished she was home. With the two of them on the same page, side by side, having a bigger objective than to simply scope out a bounty… Charlotte feels more interested. She feels more involved, and, quite frankly, wanting of that thrill. Like it’s something she could get used to.

Charlotte swallows hard at the thought. She blinks in acute distress, shaking her head partly and lifting the binoculars to her eyes again. _Focus,_ she thinks.

“Okay, so, which do you think is Avery’s house of horrors?” she asks, gradually panning from mansion to mansion.

“My money’s on the one that’s still intact,” Becky’s guess is given as she gingerly alters Charlotte’s line of sight so it’s straight ahead on the glorious building.

The other woman chuckles, taking her eyes away and squinting at her partner.

“Was that a pun?”

“What?” the redhead snickers. “No, it’s a common phrase,” the defense is squeaky, yet legitimate. “I would’ve said my money’s _in_ it. I didn’t want to jinx it.”

Her mutter invites another wave of calmness between them. At first, Charlotte chuckles at her ramblings. Particularly when Becky doesn’t want to look at her, or continues to stare ahead and play out their options of making it to Avery’s mansion. Birds chirp in the distance as the sun shines down on them, sparkling the water ahead. Ocean-colored eyes bore into Becky’s temple, the treasure hunter clearly lost in thought.

“You know, you’re not so bad at this, yourself,” Charlotte compliments, tilting her head to the side.

“The puns? We already covered that.”

“No, the... adventure stuff.”

Becky turns to her, a faint grin on her face until the light behind her eyes begins to dim. Charlotte notices, wondering what’s wrong. For a moment, at least.

“It’s in my DNA,” the ensuing smile is weak before she’s looking away, her partner’s heart faltering despite there being permanent understanding.

It’s a sore subject, Charlotte decides. She can tell Becky isn’t stuck on it in the current scenario, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction. It ends with a tiny nod, realizing that they should probably stick to the plan of finding their friends before they begin having more, deep talks.

She sets the binoculars to her eyes again, looking at the main building. Unlike last time, something else catches her eye. Something important, coming out from behind dense trees on the right-hand side. Something dreadful, as well, and alarming.

“Shit,” she breathes out.

 

 

“Don’t take your eyes off of them,” Lacey instructs the two soldiers behind their captives. “I don’t want another case of escapees.”

The pointed quip is directed toward Rhea, evident in the way she turns to the woman with a set jaw. In response, Rhea’s back straightens but she looks the least bit frightened about it. The least bit attentive, as well. To Bayley and Sasha, she appears equally as pissed. Exhausted, but mentally so. It’s obvious that there’s friction between Lacey and Rhea, noted by the two prisoners. They keep their mouths shut, shoulders brushing as they’re stood in front of the soldiers. The heavily armed soldiers, at that, all lingering in front of Avery’s mansion and waiting to be instructed on what to do. Just like Sasha promised Bayley, she’ll begrudgingly do what she’s told. Until they get a big enough opening, that is.

Sasha’s eyes roam the area, noting the water far out within New Devon. How it consumes the remaining mansions. The statues that formerly scattered the grounds. Statues of angels, sometimes of Avery. The various canons set on the pirates’ front lawns. All covered in vegetation and now home to wildlife. It’s beautiful, she decides. Too beautiful to be tainted by militias and filthy people such as Lacey. The mercenary’s jaw ticks, even more so when she hears the blonde woman speak to the soldiers again.

“Any stray movement, don’t hold back,” the direction is thrown over her shoulder once the mansion’s doors are opened with an old padlock dropping to the ground. “We shouldn’t need them to get through.”

“If you don’t need us, then why not let us leave?”

The mercenary is surprised to hear Bayley question Lacey without holding back. Without biting her tongue like she has been, for the extent of their walk to the city. She’s almost nervous to hear what kind of bullshit the blonde comes up with in order to belittle the navigator. Instead of letting it happen, she answers on Lacey’s behalf.

“Leverage,” she stares at their captor as she says it. “Insurance, more like.”

“Hm, the Human Highlighter knows her stuff,” Lacey mocks, being glared at. “As long as we have you, I’m sure Lynch is… _around,”_ her eyes roam the premises, making a face. “However… that doesn’t mean you’re not expendable. Choose your moves wisely.”

She’s about to turn around and walk into the building when Sasha stops her. This time, it’s a question that holds a faint shade of desperation. A disbelief, more like. Not pleading, but judging the blonde for being so cynical for next to no reason. No reason that they know of, actually.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Do I need a reason?” it’s retorted with a chuckle, and Sasha waits for a genuine response. “Alright, what do you _want_ me to say?” slowly, she approaches the mercenary. “Money? All sorts of greed? Because I feel like it?” the list is condescending, spoken dramatically. “Or would you like the reason to be deeper?”

Her posture lowers to be closer to Sasha’s face, locking eyes with her. The other woman raises her chin with a clenching jaw. Using every ounce of her strength to stop herself from slapping her. Come to think of it, the soldiers should’ve chained them. She may not have a weapon, but she can’t promise she’ll hold back. Then again, she feels Bayley’s eyes on her. Waiting for everything to explode. The brunette holds her breath, wishing to reach out and flex her fingers against Sasha’s arm. Just to get her to cool down, even for a minute. Even for a second, at this rate. But she can’t. Not with their assailants all swarming, all making sure to end them if they make any sudden movements.

Bayley seals her lips in nervousness, watching Lacey and Sasha have a heavy stare-down full of hatred and spite. Finally, the blonde tilts her head to the side. Sizing the mercenary up.

“You still don’t recognize me, do you?” Lacey narrows her gaze, smiling grossly and surprising them both with the inquisition.

“Should I?”

“Zoran Lazarević,” she pronounces clearly, and Sasha blinks. “Your former boss. My father.”

Sasha can’t help but cackle at the information. Her eyes light up bitterly, wide-smiled and eyebrows raised. Lacey doesn’t move away, though her gaze narrows in curiosity to the reaction.

 _“Lazarević?_ He was your dad?” her laughing doesn’t cease, turning smug once she lessens it to look Lacey up and down. “So, psychosis runs in the family, then,” it’s a statement rather than a question.

As the woman’s initial response, she turns her head slightly and flattens her lips into a straight line. Sasha watches her jaw clench menacingly. Her features turn frigid, body language tightening. It’s only for a split second, in reality. Once Lacey straightens her back with a tiny snicker, she whips Sasha across the mouth with the butt of her rifle. Quickly pulling it from her holster and using its rough end against the woman’s skin.

The mercenary falls to the ground but catches her torso by planting her palms against the stone. Knees digging into the ground, keeping herself upright but in pain. She groans at the feeling, though the sound doesn’t come out of her throat. She raises her left hand to her lips before rubbing her tongue along her teeth, having to spit out a piece of chipped tooth.

Meanwhile, Bayley moves to help her partner, dropping to the ground with a hand on her back before both she and Sasha hear the sound of soldiers cocking their guns in a synchronized clap.

“Not another step,” when Bayley peers up, she sees Lacey’s gun directly in her face.

The brunette raises her hands slowly, eyes frightened. Immediately, Sasha realizes the situation and does the same. Albeit her motions are predominantly fixated on keeping her partner safe. Keeping her mind at ease, as well.

“Okay, take it easy. She didn’t do anything,” the mercenary’s lip is busted open, blood pooling along the left side as she eases herself upward, hands raised and nudging Bayley behind her. “I apologize,” she bites back her pride and says it with sincerity, eyes cautious as she notes Rhea’s withdrawn demeanor regarding Lacey’s actions.

“Looks like the mercenary has a weakness,” their captor beams. “Actually, she has a lot more than a weakness,” it’s continued with a smirk, though thoughtful, like she’s rambling to herself. “You know, I didn’t believe it when my father’s right-hand man told me what you did to save Barbie,” there’s a cockiness in the way she speaks, Sasha narrowing her eyes. “Clearly, I should’ve. Apparently, you _do_ have a heart. It just so happens that this girl has a good hold on it,” the gun is gestured in Bayley’s direction.

Sasha seethes without looking at her partner.

“How sweet,” as she sees how much she’s getting to the mercenary, the woman’s nostrils flaring, Lacey finishes her taunting with a childish tone, then nods to her men. “Let’s move.”

 

 

“Earth to Charlotte,” Becky sings, eyebrows raised. “Are you going to let me in on whatever-it-is, or...?” she cocks her head forward a fraction, not bothering to look at Avery’s mansion.

She sees the other woman’s throat bob in nervousness. Her face is slightly discolored, more whitish with nerves strewn throughout her features before she purses her lips. A telltale sign that she’s trying her hardest to keep composure for the both of them. Realistically, it causes Becky to feel a mirrored yet premature dismay, even more so when Charlotte says, “Here,” without looking at her.

Through hesitation and slow movements, the redhead claims the binoculars. Automatically, they’re raised to her eyes with fingertips rubbing along the rubber exterior. It takes only a second to realize what she’s searching for ━ _if_ that.

Her following breath is shaky. Full of anguish. Full of heartbreak and what one could guess is an apology.

Through the lenses, she watches Sasha and Bayley being shoved into the mansion. Held at gunpoint by men in what resembles armor. Their friends being nudged into the building against their will, the brunette stumbling a bit before being ultimately hidden in the building once a nervous-looking Rhea slams the double-doors behind them.

Becky’s hand quivers as she removes the object from her eyes, lowering her chin. Staring at the stone beneath their bodies, lost in thought with a set jaw. Charlotte can tell that her mind is heading into a dark place. She can see her brown eyes turn a shade dimmer, more clouded with apprehension. With callous risks wanting to be taken. She can’t let her partner go down that path. Not again.

“The important thing is that they’re alive,” she states before the other woman can become too negative, too volatile, while knowing Becky is already sulking and feeling guilty.

“Mhm,” it’s dull, almost absentminded and as if she doesn’t want to admit that the historian is right.

“They’re okay,” Charlotte continues.

“Yep.”

“Hey,” in a last-ditch effort, the blonde whispers, “look at me.”

Against her better judgement, Becky does as told. Her eyes are sad. A brown gaze riddled with blue. Riddled with remorse and self-pity. Self-directed anger that shouldn’t be there, Charlotte thinks. She gives her partner an encouraging smile, reaching out to grab her right hand.

“We’re going to get them.”

The serious look in her eyes gets Becky to listen. If her calming voice wasn’t enough, her appearance of absolute decision and sincerity would be. Instantly, the redhead knows she means it. She knows it’s a promise, too. The most meaningful of words, and something that reassures her of them being on the right track. Of them being closer to rescuing their friends than they were the day before. She’s right: they’re alive, and they’re closer than ever. Becky’s heart eases from its heightened state. Her random spurt of anxiety goes with it. A breath fills and relieves her lungs, the Irish woman blinking hard before nodding in determination.

“We are,” she confirms, Charlotte grinning.

“Good,” her shoulder bumps into Becky’s, smile turning into a smirk. “Let’s get to it, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I think seeing Sasha and Bayley -- despite the circumstances surrounding -- provides Becky and Charlotte with a little relief. Surely seeing them in that state isn't the best, not to mention seeing Sasha get smashed in the face with the butt end of a rifle, but, as Charlotte said, they're alive. That counts for a lot.
> 
> For those who've either played or watched Uncharted 4 (or the whole franchise, for that matter), I hope Lacey's family life was a bit of an interesting twist. Obviously it's not canon in the games, but here it's definitely something that plays into her persona. Zoran Lazarević was a bad man -- a war criminal, someone who tortured people for fun -- and Lacey is far from being different. She just does it in a "classier" way. Sound familiar? (*side eyes kayfabe Lacey Evans*). So, if Sasha being connected to Becky's name wasn't enough of incentive for Lacey to keep her held captive, Sasha being the prime reason her father is dead would be a good-ass reason to keep her unhappy. And Bayley being Sasha's interest will play into that. Can you say... "YIKES"?
> 
> With all that said, I'll be open with explaining that Lacey's motives are mostly based on revenge of every kind. At this point, she knows she's on the brink of treasure, and she wants to lure Becky. She doesn't want Becky out of her way. She wants Becky right in front of her so she can torture her just as much, and she'll pull out every stop to get that revenge. Sasha is an added bonus. "Two birds, one stone," suddenly became three birds, one stone. In an additional point, I'll leave you to wonder about Rhea on your own time. Everything I write is intentional, not just in the obvious sense of overall scene, but I like to foreshadow a lot. Keep that in mind.
> 
> On a lighter note, we had some nice Charlynch stepping stones in this chapter, I'd think. Becky got her answer about Charsha's past, and she was open about being worried about it. I wanted to make sure we don't see Becky as someone who's magically healed simply because she shared a night with Charlotte. She's happier, no doubt, and she's learning (like she said), but there's still a part of her living in the shadow of her parents' death, wondering what lead them to be so unhappy. She's worried she'll be lead there, even though she's (no spoiler alert here) in love. Love doesn't heal everything, and she knows that. Sometimes the idea of not being healed by such a pink-tinted emotion is scary since it's something so powerful, but certainly not a bandage. Nonetheless, until the very, very, very end of this story, she'll be going back and forth with wondering how to navigate her own mind. 
> 
> Side note: If you're wondering why I'm talking so much today, it's because I had an iced coffee from Dunkin. That usually spikes my energy a lot. AND I BOUGHT A MINIATURE CACTUS -- A.K.A. my son.
> 
> Anyway, I'll leave you with all of that info. Charlynch is getting closer to finding Baysha, and next chapter we'll dive (quite literally) into New Devon. A LOT of the story's main plot will be figured out, too. Until then, I hope you enjoy yourselves and whatnot! Thanks for entertaining my lengthy (sometimes rambled-on) banter. :')


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I'm glad everyone enjoyed Charlynch's banter from the last chapter. Without delaying too much, how 'bout I give you more of it? And perhaps a trial run of these two working as a team...?

TUES., 9:28 A.M.

* * *

A thick squeaking reverberates beneath the soles of their boots. They feel it, too, shaking their ankles and vibrating their bones.

Against their assumptions, nothing gives out. Nothing buckles, nor does it crack. It doesn’t flake, either. Either way, despite the relief that comes with the surface’s still-standing form, the assortment of noises is unnerving to the two women.

Minutes ago, they’d chosen to tread upon the nearest, rubbled mansion to New Devon’s outer wall. The nearest establishment built on the left-hand side of the city center. With little debate, the two jointly decided that it’d be best to put off diving into the water for as long as they could. After all, the water doesn’t appear the most clean ━ being murky and a soft teal ━ and they’re not sure how much they’ll be climbing, otherwise. Climbing with soggy clothes isn’t the best, nor the easiest.

Nevertheless, their current plan isn’t without its own possible ailments. Its own challenges, and risks. For starters, the surface beneath them is crusting. Flaking and chipping as they walk with their arms ready to catch themselves. If the floor were to give out, that is. In real time, they’re making a path across its broken, terracotta roof. A flattened portion that acts as a walkway, being the same, faded red without the slopes’ grooves. For the more brittle portions of the surface, where the roof’s been peeled away, beams stick out. Protruding everywhere, poking from the material and ends broken. Shards dangling from what resembles threads on each. Wooden fibers, more like.

Keeping that in mind, they’re conscious of where they step. Their eyes shift around with diligence, making their way to the most afflicted point of the roof: a gaping hole that allows them into its top floor. A makeshift entry point, Becky muses. For once, she thanks the harsh weather and pirates’ outdated infrastructure.

Five steps later and Becky is jumping down into it. Carefully, her knee touches to the ground and palms place against the dusty floor. Making sure she’s held together, and the floor beneath her body is sturdy enough. Apparently, it’s more held together than the roof above them. As she pushes herself upright with a single breath exiting her parted lips, Charlotte lands behind her. The redhead turns to make sure her partner landed safely.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte huffs, brushing her palms against the thighs of her jeans.

The Irish woman hums in response. A tiny smile is given to the other woman, the expression fading once she gets her first, real glimpse at the inside of a New Devon house. Once she gets her first look at, ultimately, what the city was all about: wealth.

It’s evident, too. They certainly didn’t shy away from being boisterous about their earnings ━ in a shaky form of the word. They didn’t turn their cheek from displaying their worth, at all.

Coloring the room are gold-encrusted objects, first and foremost. Candelabras, decal pieces, a handheld bell, the knobs on the lone, wooden dresser. Even upon the wooden walls, detailing the bumps of rectangular panels. It’s a gold that’s complemented by deep red. Red coloring the tattered curtains, the run-down carpet beneath their feet, the bedspread.

Though, upon the mattress, its dressings aren’t what capture the women's attention. Realistically, they both zone in on the skeleton that’s attached to the mattress’ end. A beige skeleton, laid out with his legs drooping down to the floor. Held in place by an ornate sword shoved through his rib cage. Cutting into one of the bones there, too.

The treasure hunter makes a face at it. Clearly, the founders of New Devon didn’t depend on the idea of mercy or lesser forms of torture. Judgment based on the outside rebels being hauled up in a compact cage, outside. She’s not sure if this is any more gruesome, but each end has a specific, horrific patent on it. One that screams they weren’t close to lessening their forms of torture, anytime soon.

It’s not that she expected them to be generous with traitors or outsiders, however she’d still held hope that their paradise ━ that Libertalia’s existence ━ formed some good within their hearts. That it gave them a purpose to stop being, well, _pirates._ Since they’d initially fled the mainland in hopes of escaping government norms, there was no more reason to revolt. No more reason for crude tendencies, or that draconian lifestyle. But ━ she assumes ━ old habits die hard. Or, then again, they didn’t _want_ those habits to die, in the first place. _Pirates will be pirates,_ she thinks, remembering Sasha’s words.

Becky shakes her head, hoping to bring herself out of her inner musings. She observes the room again, watching Charlotte do the same while cautiously walking around.

All in all, the space is the most intact area they’ve seen so far within the city. From an outside glance, at least. The walls are upright, the doorway into the partnering room held up in place. Not a crack in sight against the standing surfaces. No blemish tarnishing the room aside from the ceiling’s gap from which they entered. Otherwise, its issues are predominantly focused in the area of vegetation with vines and roots hanging from the ceiling. Growing around the floor, against some spare beams in the corner. Taking over the space, little by little. Nothing too bad, in the end. Compared to the rest of the city, this is relatively cozy. In fact, it’s pretty calm. The light even filters through the window nicely, cascading an orange-ish glow upon the bed’s pillows.

“Coulda slept here last night,” she jokes with a keen smile, tilting her head toward Charlotte.

The other woman pauses. Her forehead creases in skepticism, then she quirks an eyebrow once Becky’s grin doesn’t falter.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s a skeleton tacked to the bed by a sword!”

Truly, she wasn’t serious about the suggestion. Still, she can’t help but go wide-eyed in clawed defense. In a faux defense, depending on her expression to keep up her charade of teasing her partner.

“They’re just authentic Halloween decorations, is all,” her hand waves toward the soulless entity.

“Again… you’re kidding, right?”

“Yeah, that time I was,” it’s muttered, the blonde snickering as she follows the Irish woman through the doorway. “Down here,” Becky throws back to the historian.

Without hesitation, she jumps through a second hole in the floor, reaching the house’s ground level. Charlotte follows suit. She bends her knees and carefully jumps downwards into a brief hallway. A short stretch of wooden floorboards creaking beneath their feet as they move. Closed doors line each side, the women passing them one by one. With each barrier ignored, they wonder what’s behind them. Unfortunately, they don’t have enough time to peek into the various rooms. They don’t have enough time to cater to their intrigue or curiosity. Not when Lacey and Rhea looked beyond determined as the soldiers shoved Sasha and Bayley into Avery’s mansion. The redhead sighs through her nose, trying to get her mind off of it.

“What if this really was some elaborate Halloween prank, though?” she looks at the other woman as they walk shoulder to shoulder.

“Are you the puppet master?” the blonde squints in playful suspicion.

“I can’t reveal that,” Becky scoffs. “It’d be unethical.”

It earns a laugh, the two women entering the house’s study. From what they gather, that is. They’re met with a solid, wooden desk pressed against the wall below a window. A chair flipped onto its side, in front of it, with one leg missing. Notes upon the surface of the desk as they’ve been exposed to moisture throughout the years, some of them crumpled. A feathered quill lies within the single groove at the desk’s top end. Upon the walls are slanted portraits and paintings, dust eating away their surfaces until they’re hardly deciphered. Against the western wall is a fireplace, looking sad and empty with ashes covering its surface. Becky raises her eyebrows, wondering if it was ever cleaned.

Above everything else, one thing, in particular, grasps the treasure hunter’s attention: a plaque above the fireplace, very easy to make out. She beams.

“Look, a dragon,” her smile is uncanny, Charlotte thinks once she’s turned to. “We’re in Christopher Condent’s house.”

The taller woman raises her eyebrows, impressed. Simultaneously adoring how Becky’s face lights up at the idea. How she’s glowing. A kid on Christmas morning, as per usual when it comes to expeditions like these. When it comes to pirates and their surrounding knowledge. Charlotte can tell the treasure hunter is in her realm now. In her normal, fiery headspace. Excited, and thriving. It’s endearing, she decides, while watching Becky move to the window so she can peek outside.

“There’s a gate surrounding this side of the house,” she turns around. “We’ll have to check the closest, western door in the hallway. Think that’s our best bet to lead us that way. If not, we’ll have to figure out another way back to the roof. Or blow a hole in the wall,” the ending is murmured.

Her eyebrows raise at the idea. She’s not sure about Becky’s seriousness on the matter, yet she doesn’t question it. There’s no time to, anyway. Not when the redhead is already crossing over the study’s threshold, observing each, western door.

“I hear water coming from this one,” Becky notifies her while staring at the burgundy-colored barrier.

Her hand presses delicately to its surface as Charlotte approaches. With a creak, the door opens to reveal that the western side of the house is primarily wrecked. Primarily missing its walls and foundation, allowing New Devon’s liquid contents to flow between and underneath its walls. Water rushes through from the city’s swampy consumption, pouring into the space and flooding outwards. A mimicked river feature within Condent’s domain.

Still, despite the watery gorge that separates them from the room’s other half, they see a ledge upwards that’ll take them onto the second floor. That’ll ultimately take them back onto the roof, then past the gate where they’ll be closer to Avery’s mansion. For now, they’re left studying the room’s features. Its remaining, gold-encrusted facets. Its solid-wood components, holding the rest of it together while its majority has fallen. The ceiling is almost entirely gone, thick beams exposed with the upper floor peeled back. They can see all the way to the second level’s ceiling, brown and polished with mossy features patterning it.

In one area, however, the sky is visible. Approximately five steps away from the ledge they’ll have to reach. It’ll be a quick escape, Becky decides. Straight upwards, then forward to Avery’s. She doesn’t dare say it aloud, on the other hand. She won’t risk the universe hearing her optimism. Not when she’s finally gotten a solid grasp on the mindset. Her gaze narrows, a contemplative hum exiting her throat.

Even with the ledge prime and ready for them to grasp onto, it’s too tall. Becky notes the gap between the floorboards and its dusty edge. How it’s too tall for either of them to prop the other upwards, as well. They’ll have to find something to stand on, as it looks like their best route back to the roof.

Brown eyes study the area, seeing what they’re working with as she twists in place. Charlotte stays silent, though turning to her partner to see the wheels behind her gaze rotating. Working hard and flickering, eyes narrowed in pondering. She has to resist the urge to smile. It doesn’t help when an enthusiastic, smug hum is heard. More confident than the last, lacking its former questions. Frankly, it’s a sign that she’s found something.

“We’ll need that box up there,” it told with a point.

The historian follows the display to see the separate patch of second floor above the doorway. Tucked into the wall, almost as if it was a storage space before the ceiling crumbled. It’s isolated from the boards they’ll have to reach, the room’s second floor torn into two platforms with a gap in the middle. With a gap hovering above that rushing water, then expanding both ways.

“Okay,” she nods, “and how do you plan on… getting… it…?”

Her question slows as she sees that Becky is already locked on the mission. Already scaling the wall’s exposed beams, using them as a ladder to climb upwards at least fifteen feet into the air. Grunts exit her throat, in the meantime, though Charlotte notes how determined she appears. How natural, too. She shakes her head in amusement, noting where Becky is heading next. Especially once the redhead turns to the left and hangs backwards from the final “rung,” leaning away from the wall with her arms outstretched. Her handwork is adjusted, kicking off the surface to grasp onto a thinner, wooden spindle that’s protruding horizontally out from its top half. A resemblance of the bars they had to swing from, before the treasury.

Becky dangles in place, swaying slightly with her knees partly bent. Looking like she’s enjoying herself, if you were to ask Charlotte. The blonde snickers at her partner’s tongue poking out from between her healing yet reddened lips, fiercely determined but taking her time.

“You were the kid who hogged the monkey bars, weren’t you?”

“Surprisingly, no,” her denial is smooth, unwavering while swinging to the next spindle. “I had no interest in monkey bars. I still don’t.”

“Really?” she puts her hands on her hips, lips pursed. “Hm.”

“I _did_ hog the swing set, though.”

“You actually chose the least-adventurous playground feature?” it’s full of skepticism, but also entertainment and intrigue.

“Not quite.”

“What?”

She sways her body enough to pick up traction. Once ready, she throws herself onto the platform and lands smoothly. A pack of dust flutters to the floor when her boots hit the surface, floating downwards as Charlotte moves away from the area. She brushes herself off while the Irish woman explains herself.

“I’d climb the poles on the sides and I’d sit on the top bar,” her shoulders tighten, then slack, being cheeky and somewhat shy about it.

The other woman cackles.

“You didn’t fall?” she tries to wipe away her own smile. “Hard to believe.”

“Hey, I’m coordinated sometimes,” the argument is brittle, to begin with ━ noticed by both women as Becky looks away.

“Yeah, during a full moon.”

“Alright, alright.”

The teasing is waved away as she shakes her head. Carefully, her boot shoves the crate off the ledge after Charlotte stepped back from its falling arc, just in case. Its wooden surface hits the floor on the other side of the makeshift river, a thump shaking the whole room. Becky winces at the vibration, breathing out once everything settles. In hopes of not giving her partner something else to poke fun at, she cautiously jumps back down to the initial platform. No stumbling included, she breathes out while moving to the river’s edge.

Becky goes first. She braves the rushing water, being up to her mid-thigh as it splashes everywhere. It’s faster ━ _stronger_ ━ than it looks. Charlotte thinks the same as she follows in Becky’s footsteps.

Its current is heavy, threatening to steal their bodies away and take them out of Condent’s house without so much as a second thought. Using their full strength, they manage to steer themselves across, in the end. With a round of legwork and clamoring to reach the other, wooden floor, they pull themselves upward and to their feet. Much to their happiness, since the water didn’t wholly engulf their bodies, it shouldn’t be too much of a hindrance against their progress. Their upcoming movements and inevitable climbing.

Paired with a mindless, mouthed “Okay,” the crate is pushed in front of the ledge. Flush with the ledge’s underside, being set as a single stair. Becky turns to her partner, making a grand gesture. A dramatic one, at that.

“After you,” there’s a tender smile on her face, albeit goofy, as always.

“No ‘Your Majesty’?” Charlotte raises her eyebrows. “Figures. The one time it’d actually make sense to say...” she puts her palms to the surface, pushing herself upward.

“Couldn’t give you that satisfaction,” Becky tails her.

“Again, you’re insufferable,” once she reaches the top, she rolls her eyes.

“I live to be a pest.”

“Yeah, I got that,” her voice is dull, keeping a dopey grin on her face.

The Irish woman chuckles while moving to the roof’s opening. The climb to the topmost level is easier, not needing a boost or a crate to exit the mansion. She merely wraps her hands around the smooth edge, letting out a teeth-gritting groan while pulling herself up. An obvious sign that she’s over the climbing with such sore muscles. The historian would be inclined to agree. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but it certainly stunts her progress more than most.

Nevertheless, she follows the other woman until they’re standing atop Condent’s roof. Overlooking the town, seeing that they’re a fraction closer to Avery’s mansion. The fresh air hits their skin, making them realize just how muggy the inside of the house was. They simultaneously inhale, Charlotte running a hand through her hair as they begin to walk along the flattened portion of the roof. Once again resembling a walkway, stretching for a good amount of feet until━

There’s a crack. A rumble follows. Feeling like an aftershock to an earthquake, put together. Their eyes go wide and they’re stuck in place, arms outstretched and not knowing how to react. For a second, it stops. It stops moving, stops cracking, stops sounding so menacing. So _threatening._ But, in the following moment, they know it was the calm before the storm. The calm before anything precarious takes place.

In the blink of an eye, the terracotta gives out from beneath their feet. Their boots and their bodies, crashing through the roof and being dropped onto a muddy slope alongside the river rushing through Condent’s mansion. They’re submerged in the thick goop, its substance flickering against their cheeks and skin. Both of them dropped onto their butts with a grunt until they’re sliding with quickly mounting speed down the mudslide. Trying to steer themselves, likewise. A collective round of “Shit, shit, shit” and “Oh, crap” taking place when the mudslide simply drops off at the end, and there’s nowhere to go but straight into New Devon’s swamp.

A pair of splashes follows, both women left to slide straight into the murky water within the city’s belly. Water up their noses, consuming their bodies, wetting their features. Soaking their clothes, like they’ve been trying to avoid. So much for that, they think. Within seconds, the two resurface next to each other. Each coughing at the turn of events and making sure they’re both breathing.

“You okay?”

Charlotte chuckles, “Just a little soaked.”

The other woman smiles when she sees that the historian is alright, letting out a breath and laughing along.

“Now we’ve taken a shower _and_ a bath,” a thick strand of wet, crimson hair is pulled away from her forehead.

“Mm, refreshing,” when the blonde sees Becky nod toward the shallow portion of water surrounding another mansion, she follows while paddling. “Water foaming with algae. Just what the doctor ordered.”

“No need to be glib about it, love,” she beams at her partner’s dramatics. “Good thing you looked at my journal while you still could.”

A small pout is given at the knowledge. A spurt of mourning, being sudden and sad about it. She notes how Becky’s backpack is almost fully submerged in the water, fully ruined by the wetness, and it likely was entirely filled with the substance when they first fell into it. Even if they were to dry the contents, who knows how damaged everything is. At least they have the memories, she thinks. That’s enough to curve her mouth into a smile. They’ll always have the memories.

Small droplets of water attach to their cheeks as they swim themselves to a half-drown window against the side of the next mansion. For today, it’ll serve as their entrance point, both women ducking their heads to make it inside the slanted house. Most of it is soaking within the swamp, leaning downward toward the city center as its foundation was likely washed away during the dam’s break. Once their eyes adjust to the shadows, however, they can see that there’s a broken platform leading them onto the dry floor. Only a foot or so above the water’s surface, being clammy yet more solid.

Becky pulls herself up using her full arm strength, afterwards assisting Charlotte onto the slab of wood. She earns a quiet “Thank you” before they both turn around and observe the new room. An area looking a lot like Condent’s mansion with the gold tones and burgundy colors. There’s no furniture within the space, being empty yet vibrant. Less light than the former mansion, but everything is visible enough. Becky wonders if most of its furniture fell through the open floor before drifting with the rushing water. It’s doubtful that the space would’ve served as a storage unit, this close to New Devon’s frontside. Especially since there’s not much to show off within this space, as it is.

“Do you think the flooding was part of the colonists’ retaliation?” Charlotte asks suddenly, eyes narrowed via interest. “The founders steal their gold so the colonists ruin their utopia?”

“Could be,” when Becky responds, she sounds mindless ━ frankly dismissive of the idea, almost.

“You have your own theory, don’t you?” her partner picks up on it, asking knowingly as the redhead turns around with her hands on her hips.

“Don’t you find it coincidental how every mansion in this city is flooded except for one?”

“Avery’s,” Charlotte says, squinting further and nodding slowly.

“If the colonists retaliated, wouldn’t they foremost aim for the man in charge?”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” she raises her eyebrows. “Maybe he’s crazier than we initially figured. Maybe the flood was… _his_ doing.”

A dumbfounded snicker exits her throat. Becky matches it while leaving the room. The Irish woman peers over her shoulder to smirk at her remark, too. A leftover reaction to Charlotte’s words.

Although, soon, her amusement shifts into a smugness when they walk into another bedroom. A bed, pressed against the northern wall. Completely made, just like the other. However, unlike the last, there’s no skeleton attached to the bedspread. This setting is completely benign and untouched. The hunter’s smirk widens, eyeing her partner up and down. An emphasized, cunning nature at the forefront of her expression.

“You never give up, do you?” it’s said through a giggle, Becky sealing her lips before walking out of the room once more.

The following space is another office room, from what they can tell. Its skinny-legged desk is sat in the middle, being backed by a chair and otherwise vacant surroundings. No paintings, no decals, no candelabras. No accent pieces, truly. Nothing else except for a fireplace.

In retrospect, at second look, it’s not a normal fireplace. Once Becky ducks her head a fraction, a curt chuckle is her reaction. An impressed response to what she’s staring at, studying with an incredulous grin curving her mouth. The fireplace — for lack of a better description — is a sneak-hole through to the following room. A pass-through, entering a hidden, side-room. Brilliant, she thinks.

“I wonder if this was always a door,” she continues to beam, teeth shining in the darkness. “It’s pretty badass. I should install one of these in my house,” her hand strokes its decorative side, being like a real fireplace with a hard oak casing.

Becky’s comment grabs Charlotte’s notice. The blonde straightens her back in curiosity, as she’d previously been feeling her way around the desk. She tilts her head to the side, staring at the woman.

“Where are you even living, nowadays?”

“I’m not,” the treasure hunter laughs, spinning around. “I mean, I’m not settled anywhere. I just go where the wind takes me.”

“Or the treasure.”

She moves her head back and forth.

“More or less.”

Charlotte hums, letting Becky lead through the fireplace’s door. She can tell that the Irish woman is excited about the small hole to crawl through. Admittedly, it’s a cool feature. Something secretive, something robust. Resembling the pirate stories one would be told as a child. Cunning yet practical. Fantasy yet real. Catering to their inner adolescent while, as adults, they deal with the harsh world.

Once they emerge in the next room, it’s a straight shot to the adjacent window. Their exit, leading back outside and to the last house in New Devon’s left-hand side row of mansions. The last house before they’re ready to impede on Avery’s grounds. Ready to walk upon his floors, between his walls, and find their friends.

With the growing determination, there’s also nervousness. Apprehension, and caution. There’s no doubt Lacey’s men will be swarming the area, or waiting to ambush them. At some point, at least. God, she hopes they don’t. They only have one gun, after all. One gun, with a single clip of ammunition to use. It doesn’t bode well for them.

Becky grits her teeth and shakes her head, stepping out of the window and running through a foot or two of water. Its layer covering a patio between the two yards. Behind her, the consistent splashes signify that Charlotte is following close by. Both of them treading upon the previous house’s premises until they trespass onto the next. Until they step onto the next, being lined with two, massive cannons at the very end. They’re heavy and black-colored, practically matte due to natural events taking away their shine. They’re pointed toward the entrance of New Devon, ready to fire at whatever or whoever may intrude on their paradise. Ready to unload on the threat, destroying it on sight. The redhead approaches the cannons, smiling.

“Now we’re talkin’,” Becky taps its barrel to evoke a hollow, pinging noise.

“It’s still loaded,” her partner peeks into it. “Guess caging the rebels was enough punishment, after all.”

“Mm,” she agrees. “Let’s go,” a nod is shown in the direction of the next house.

Another window serves as their entrance, leading them into the mansion that took the brunt of the dam’s blast. It’s completely full of water on its bottom half, all rooms turned into an outlet for the river. There’s an upper level, however. One that’s still intact, ready to be used as a catwalk to the hill where Avery’s mansion is perched.

The redhead nods at it, approaching the ledge and pulling herself up. She grits her teeth, feeling her skin being coated with sweat as she continues to use her strength. Once she’s situated above, she lowers her hand for Charlotte to take. The gesture is accepted within a second, especially after Becky cheekily says, “M’lady.”

Charlotte smiles, muttering, “So sweet,” before she’s yanked upwards and at her feet.

An admiral grin is shared between the two. A moment of tenderness, misplaced within a crumbling building. Charlotte wouldn’t want it any other way, she thinks. Not when she can see how enthralled Becky is within their steps. How stupefied she feels by the whole idea that they’re walking in Avery’s own path. As a historian, the blonde can mirror that amazement. She can feel the history living within the broken walls of New Devon. The memories that flow with the burst dam’s contents. It’s astonishing, to be honest. It’s mesmerizing, and distracting.

But they have to keep moving. Their mutual enjoyment finishes with Becky clearing her throat a shade or two bashfully, keeping the oncoming blush from her cheeks.

“Help me move this bookcase,” the request comes at the sound of footsteps, the redhead moving over to its thicker end.

It’s blocking a hole in the wall, from what Charlotte can tell. A fallen, horizontal barricade keeping them from moving into the only space free of crumbling boards. Free of a sheer drop into the water below them. It’s blocking the solid part of the second floor, more importantly. The one with the least questions, least gambles.

Without a word, the historian shuffles over to the other end of the piece of furniture. Her hands curl around its splintering sides, sliding the heavy piece of wood toward Becky as it scrapes against the planks below. Both women scrunch their noses in exertion, though it’s a simple task in comparison to most of which they’ve encountered. Soon, it’s over, and they clap their hands together in hopes of brushing stray slivers from their palms.

The hole they duck into is small, obviously not a feature of the original house. It’s cracked on the edges, as if someone had blown a cannonball through it while the wall otherwise held up against its force.

Charlotte holds onto the opening as she follows the redhead, both women stepping into a lengthy, intact hallway. Appearing as though it’s been untouched by the force of nature, the force of the flood and the presumable war raging outside New Devon. Light streams in from windows on the southern, long wall, creating square patches of sun on its brown panels. It’s beautiful. A mimicry of a dream, letting particles of dust be seen within the brightness. Floating around and paying no mind to the strangers treading within.

The hallway, itself, has a red-colored runner. A decorative carpet only tattered at the edges. Creased in some places, but otherwise perfectly managed and in place. Smaller portraits hang upon the wall, most of them straight. Otherwise, the vast corridor is empty. Doors line its northern wall, then down toward each end on the southern side, and its tips. There are plenty of spaces to look into, though each door is closed from what they can see.

Becky exhales at their options. She exhales at the notion that they’ll soon be coming face to face with Avery’s domain, above anything. That is, until her spurt of anticipation is derailed by Charlotte’s sudden discovery.

“Wait,” a finger is held up, gingerly pointing at a certain decal on the wall ━ centered between the first windows. “Thomas Tew’s sigil. We’re in Tew’s mansion.”

Internally, Becky is impressed that Charlotte noticed and remembered Tew’s sigil despite her areas of study being much without pirate history. So much so, she looks at the blonde, then at the decal, then repeat. It’s the pirate’s infamous calling card: a beefy arm holding onto a curved blade. Unmistakable. Her eyebrows raise.

“Making our way up the food chain, eh?”

“It’d appear so,” her partner agrees, turning to Becky before walking side by side with the woman.

Their steps are cautious. They creak upon the boards beneath the running carpet, yet muffled by the material, itself. The whole mansion teeters every now and again, showing its age. Becky hadn’t noticed it within the other homes, however she presumes this time it has something to do with half of the building being missing. Despite that, the random wave of silence is unnerving. It drums up her nerves more, like they’re walking in slow motion.

Those nerves amplify once they find a single, un-closed door. Mostly shut, though cracked. Unlatched, and welcoming whoever comes within.

Her forehead creases while she pushes it open, hearing the old door squeak on its hinges as they find themselves staring at a dining hall. A high-ceilinged room with a giant fireplace at the very end, cabinets lining its side, and tall windows on its longest, burgundy wall opposing the corridor’s entry. An immaculate setting with a candelabra chandelier topping it off, being gold and winding until white candles are set atop. They look burnt, but still primarily unused. Her chin lowers.

The gorgeous decor isn’t what gets her attention, in the end. Once she refocuses, it’s only inviting of the next wave of impact. The next spike in her nerves, and curiosity. Actually, she’s not sure what she feels. She can’t pinpoint an exact emotion.

Not when she’s staring at a lengthy, expensive-looking table, its guests still sat in their chairs ━ aside from one or two, fallen on the floor. Skeletons, all dressed to impress in fancy coats, feathered hats, obvious wealth covering them from head to toe. Tattered garments atop their bodies, their bones and clothes showing age and effects as they’d been picked clean by the atmosphere and probably bugs. Most of them sit upright yet slouched, situated upon red-cushioned chairs at a table cluttered with empty, dusty plates, silverware, and chalices. Multiple items fallen onto their sides, rolled onto the floor. Collecting dirt and grime there, for years to come.

Becky and Charlotte stall in the doorway for a moment with their mouths minutely agape, then slowly walk further inside. They circle the table with deliberacy, with caution, as if the skeletons could wake up and spook them for disturbing the scene.

“My _God,"_ the historian is first to whisper, eyes fixated on the sight with her lips staying parted.

The redhead agrees. She can’t speak the words, but she agrees. Her throat forms a lump, having to swallow it heavily as she walks around the table in awe. Carefully avoiding a fallen skeleton, his beige skull toppled a foot or so away from the chair that’s been tipped over. Like he’d struggled, then croaked after his friends did.

“Becks,” her voice is soft yet mildly jumpy, holding up a crimson-colored card with a symbol detailing its face. “Another sigil,” Becky’s mouth opens with nothing coming out, eyebrows knitting together deeper.

Her gaze searches the table, finding multiple of the same. All having a different sigil drawn onto it. Some sat on the skeleton’s plates, others near their silverware. Every soulless entity has one, she notes. Every card holds a different sigil, the majority of which she recognizes.

“They’re... seating cards,” the frown on Becky’s face intensifies, pondering of it but confident in her statement. “Look at all of ‘em,” she lifts her eyes to glance at her partner, as if something suddenly hit her. “Charlotte…” it’s hardly a whisper, “these... are the founders of Libertalia.”

The historian appears uneasy, reserved with her posture straightening. She looks at them, following Becky’s theory. Noting the place cards just as much, keeping a similar frown on her face as she does it.

Becky’s jaw is slack, just as dumbfounded. Her face is almost void of any solid emotion, being at a loss for words and feeling.

“And they... _what?”_ the redhead asks aloud, the question rhetorical. “What happened?” she lifts her eyes again, looking at the historian who tilts her head to the side with a slanted, tight-lipped grin.

“Well,” Charlotte picks up a chalice from the table, formerly still weakly grasped by a skeleton’s hand, “I’ll give you one guess.”

It’d make sense, Becky muses. There’s no other reason for them to simply drop dead, all in the same spot. She understands Charlotte’s aim in theory. How they were most likely poisoned by something within the cups, all sipping it and killing over, on the spot.

“They had a lot to live for,” the blonde lets her mind roam. “This wasn’t done by their own, collective desire. Not like a… suicide pact.”

“Definitely not.”

Becky’s jaw shifts, clearly thinking as she stares at the two, empty seats at the end of the table. Meanwhile, Charlotte’s eyes search the scene for answers. Something more than the place cards can provide, or the chalices that speak so loudly of what happened. There’s a beige, folded piece of paper stuck beneath a plate upon the table. A corner, tucked beneath the fine china. Gentle fingertips slide it out from beneath, unfolding the piece of paper and seeing that it’s an invitation. Becky watches her frown again, more quizzically, listening to the historian read it aloud:

_“On behalf of Lord Avery, I invite you to my manor at sundown tomorrow. The time has come to abandon our animosities and reunite under the banner of God and Liberty. Signed, Thomas Tew.”_

It gets nearly an immediate snicker. One that causes Charlotte to peer at the other woman from over the top of the paper, though not moving it away from her line of sight. There’s an incredulous look upon the Irish woman’s face, a type of smirk that’s second-handedly smug. Cunning, moreover. One that calls someone clever. One that’s in borderline disbelief, but knowingness and diluted expectedness.

“How intriguing,” the two words are dull, opposing their legitimate meaning, Becky licking her top teeth in thought before looking at Charlotte. “Have you noticed anything weird about the table?”

Ocean eyes roam its surface, finding nothing. They shift to the people surrounding it, finally noting the two empty chairs. The certain sigil cards that are sat in front of those empty plates, those empty chairs, the virtually untouched chalices.

Her lips purse, eyebrows raising.

“Once again, we’re missing our star pirate,” she answers, mimicking Becky’s smirk.

“Not to mention the _host_ of this shindig. Mister Tew,” the redhead holds up Avery and Tew’s placement cards.

As she tosses them back down, they flutter onto the plates. Charlotte lowers the note from her eyes, Becky rubbing her mouth in contemplation.

“So, adding to our theory?” she holds out her hand in vagueness, and Charlotte gives her a nod to proceed. “These guys, here, sparked a full-on revolt when they stole the treasure for themselves.”

“The colonists were quickly taken out of the equation,” the blonde adds.

“Yes, but then these guys had to deal with each other, and that wasn’t as easy.”

“A dozen or so founders, equal amount of ego. Sounds like a powder keg waiting to blow,” Charlotte moves her head back and forth, making a slight _“yikes”_ face.

“To ‘alleviate’ the tension, Avery and Tew invite them here to, um...” she looks at Charlotte, pointing at the note.

Her partner looks down, reading it again.

_“‘‘Abandon our animosities—’”_

“To abandon their animosities,” Becky’s eyes shoot open again. “But they lied. They had ulterior motives,” she walks closer to the table, picking up a chalice and speaking animatedly with it. “I picture a grand toast taking place, Avery being the speaker with Tew sittin’ tight, and they all take a swig.”

There’s a pause, just enough for Becky’s voice to lower.

“Except these two,” her hand gestures to the empty chairs, slowly placing the cup back down. “While their fellow founders croak, these two make off with the loot. And… that’s all she wrote.”

In absentmindedness, Charlotte whispers, “That’s all she wrote.”

It begins to sink in for both of them, the room falling quiet as birds outside cuckoo. The stillness of the room is monumental, continuously reminding them of the events that took place. Becky exhales, then blinks hard. As if she’s randomly stunned, and everything has fully wracked her brain.

“In the matter of _minutes,_ all that treasure became theirs,” she all but whispers to herself, bending down to put her hands on the table and laughing slightly, miraculously. “In the matter of freakin’ minutes,” it’s repeated, stressed and emphasized.

For a moment, Charlotte is just as quiet. Just as dumbfounded and confused. Just as tentative to let the knowledge digest and be felt fully. At the same time, it’s amazing. Not only is it sad or somewhat destructive, controversial in its own way, but it’s… _historical._ They’re consistently coming face to face with ongoing information and events that no one else has ever known. That, in itself, is amazing. It’s something to sit down and think about. Something to remember, and re-learn. Sure, this trip has brought a lot of things to them, but she’s very seldom allowed herself to admit that they’ve made history by being here. That they’ve uncovered Avery’s secrets when no one else has come close, for centuries.

Charlotte’s mouth fumbles open, her fingers running along the note in her hands.

“We’re standing on the bones of history,” it even sounds blown away within the mutter, both of them ignoring the pun strewn within.

“You just realized that?” Becky teases with quietness, not belittling her but smiling fondly at how bewildered Charlotte’s features appear.

“No, I’ve been gradually coming to terms with it since we were in the treasury, but _now...”_ her sentence trails off, never finished with her eyes widening partly.

“It’s hard to ignore.”

Charlotte raises her eyebrows curtly, then pauses. She looks up to see Becky staring at the table again. Something pulls within the blonde’s chest. Something big, and something deep.

“This entire place... it’s... _immaculate,”_ the statement captures Becky’s attention, brown eyes searching hers. “You truly meant it when you said I’d finally have a piece of knowledge that no one else does. A piece of _history,”_ her lips tremble, struggling for a beat or two. “You kept your word.”

At that, Becky wets her lips before dismissing her compliment.

“It was only incentive. Remember?” her shoulders shrug lightly. “Tainted by my intentions.”

“But it wasn’t a lie,” Charlotte points out seriously, defending the hunter against herself. “Whether or not you had underlying intentions, you _did_ look out for me. You knew this…” she hesitates, “this would make me happy.”

This time, Becky can’t deny it. She goes through a minor struggle, eventually nodding gently and trying to hide a forming, sentimental grin. Her eyes shimmer within the sunlight.

“I was hoping,” the admission is quiet, calm yet promising.

“You were hoping I’d feel fulfilled.”

The way Charlotte looks at her is nerve-wracking. It’s deep, and it’s real. It reminds Becky of everything they’ve gone through, from the very beginning. Since their first venture together. The happiness, the pining, the hardships, the heartbreak. Their reunion, their friction. More than anything, it reminds her of how she’s fallen for the woman in front of her. How Charlotte has seemingly fallen for her, too. In spite of anything, they’ve found their way back to each other. They’re finally on the same wavelength, and they’re making history together.

Becky nods, sealing her lips. Charlotte notices her anxiousness about it, feeling the need to confirm what she feels with a nod of her own.

“Well, I do.”

It gets a giant smile from Becky. A childish one, yet genuine.

“I _am_ happy I came along with you,” the blonde expresses with a mirrored reaction. “Even though it hasn’t gone to plan, and we’ve hit some snags along the way. I’m happy I’m here.”

“Thanks for accompanying me, Charlie,” Becky matches her sentiment. “I wouldn’t want our last adventure together to be anything short of a reckless goose-chase like this.”

The joke is bittersweet. Charlotte smiles shyly, though it dims at her words. An implication of something she’s not fond of, even if Becky spoke it with tenderness. It reminds her that this is their finale together. The culmination of their expeditions, even if few beneath their belts. If Charlotte is the one who said this is their last trip together, why does she feel so disappointed? Why does she want to plead that this is only the beginning? Even if she’s walking away from this, hand in hand with Becky, the two of them together and ready to communicate better on the mainland with no intention of heading off on another adventure, why does she feel let down?

As Charlotte sighs, head bowed, there’s a brief pause in the conversation. A stop in it, with thick intention clouding the area. Becky’s demeanor shows that she has more to say, especially once a blue-green gaze lifts to study her features. She doesn’t rush her partner, waiting for Becky to say what’s on her mind.

“For what it’s worth,” Becky starts, timidly, “even if you _are_ happy you’re here... I’m still sorry for what I’ve put you through.”

She’s given a faint smile. Charlotte blinks slowly, not looking away from the other woman.

“It’s okay,” the two words are practically mouthed. “I forgive you.”

There’s a wave of understanding that washes over them. The aspect of burying the hatchet, and letting go of what’s happened. Neither of them will forget what they’ve endured when it comes to how their relationship blossomed, but they’ve learned from it. They’ve worked together, and they’ve used those difficulties to their advantage. Charlotte has seen Becky’s growth, and Becky has seen how big of a person Charlotte can be. How she can see past her pain in order to practice empathy. How the blonde is truly the embodiment of sunshine. A sunflower. And Becky will continue to learn from her. She’ll continue to work on herself in hopes of making her presence easier for both herself and those around her. In total, she’s learning. With Charlotte, she’s always learning, and that’s all she wants.

The way Becky stares at her earns a partial shade of blush to cascade over her cheeks. Charlotte can feel the heat within her skin. The heat between them, too. In any other circumstance, she’d revel in it. She’d welcome it, and greet it with open arms. She’d cross the room, cup Becky’s cheeks, and kiss her chastely. Then heatedly. She’d remind her of the night they shared, hours ago, and the morning they woke up to. She’d remind them of what the ache in their bones is from, being deeper than simple climbing and swinging.

Here, she has to shove those mental desires away. She has to be the one to alleviate their tension, hoping to escape it so they can finish this mission once and for all.

“So,” she treads carefully, “since the troublesome twosome—”

Becky snorts, interrupting as the historian’s mouth hangs open.

“What’s so hilarious?” Charlotte squints.

“Twosome. _Tew_ -some,” the pirate’s seating card is held up between her fingers, shown to the blonde who actually giggles at the pun.

The other woman shakes her head in self-directed amusement yet scolding. Annoyance on her own part for interrupting such a serious moment. The entertainment dies down gradually, Becky biting the tip of her tongue and refocusing so Charlotte can finish.

“You were saying?”

“Since they didn’t stick around…” it’s slowly paced, spoken dramatically, “what do you bet they hid away at Avery’s?”

A smirk curves her mouth, twitching it upward as she goes wide-eyed.

“I’d bet a whole lot.”

Charlotte matches her expression, nodding backward to the door from which they entered the room. And, with a smile, Becky follows so they can pick up on their friends’ trail, hopefully to find them sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we've picked up more clues to Avery's puzzle. I know it's been a while since we've really touched upon it, so by now a lot of the story's information has tapered off while I've brought their relationships into the forefront. But, moving forward, there will be a lot more of Avery's story uncovered (for those who haven't played the games, you'll have a nice treat for that aspect).
> 
> As with more trail uncovered (and with it heating up), we'll see these two work together A LOT. And I mean... it's not just Charlotte sitting back anymore (and that's not being said in a free-loader type of way, trust me). Instead, she's going to be super involved with the climbing, the shooting, the obstacles, figuring things out. On a semi-serious note, it's practically foreplay to them. Becky sure loves a woman who knows her history and pirate notes.
> 
> I know we didn't see Sasha and Bayley this chapter, but Becky and Charlotte are on their tail, trust me. We're nearing the end of the story (somewhat), so things will get more climactic. I think the main story wraps up around Ch. .... 38 (???), but then I may or may not include a small string of updates that occur after everything's all said and done. Kinda showing their cooperation with each other after the excitement has simmered down and they're stagnant. There's a lot in store.
> 
> Next chapter is the last before I gather myself for the last stretch of the main story. THE ANTICIPATION, I know. Rest assured, it's already moving along within my docs, so we're moving more than we were a month or so ago. It's truly surreal, esp. because I was just reading Ch. 1-6 again last night and I was like #wot. We've come so far since Becky waltzed into Oslo, huh? 
> 
> Anywho, thanks for reading. I'll see you next time, friends.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, my friends! 
> 
> It's occurred to me that a few people I've spoken to never got the email update re: this fic's last chapter ??? AO3 continues to hate me. BUT! That means, if you get this alert, that you realized what happened and thus you got a double update! Hurrah.
> 
> Anywho, either way, I'm here to bring you a nice helping of adventurous Charlynch! You're welcome.

TUES., 10:37 A.M.

* * *

“Careful.”

Charlotte raises her eyes from the toppled tree trunk, seeing Becky looking back at her. She nods.

The two women approach the obstacle. The fallen, thick tree that had crashed through the second floor’s western wall, some time ago. Seemingly the only blemish of the upper level’s upright stretch of Tew’s building, being a gaping hole in its side with a makeshift, tree-bark bridge letting them walk onward and upward. After an incline of roughly twenty-five feet, it’s sloping onto the hill of Avery’s mansion. Leading them to be diagonal from Avery’s front door. Mere feet away from its entrance. The entrance where their friends were shoved into, approximately an hour ago ━ give or take.

The trunk dangles over a tall gorge, held in place by two or three, thick roots keeping it anchored into the cliffside. Peering over the side of it from the comfort of Tew’s floor, Becky notices the rushing water, many feet below. Flooding both to and from the city, as if it’s cycling. As if it’s stalking them, swirling, or it’s a mote full of alligators. She swallows and raises her eyebrows.

Turning back to Charlotte, she gets a comforting smile. An encouraging one. Helping her with an extra, unspoken shove so she follows through on the plan. So she takes this necessary risk, even if the extremity of it is unnerving.

Becky breathes out, equally psyching herself up to the task.

Her first, cautious step onto the log is muffled by moss on its side. The next is a matted thump, hollow and deep. Not prominent, but enough to feel in her bones. In her aching muscles, through her feet, up her ankles, and vibrating through her veins. Her teeth pinch together while the height below them comes into further view. Once she’s emerged feet from Tew’s floor, and she’s now standing above open air.

“Just go slowly,” she talks over her shoulder when she hears Charlotte’s initial step, making sure to balance herself, in the meantime.

“Mhm,” the historian feels identically coiled, heart in her throat as she moves one foot in front of the other.

They pretend they’re crossing a beam at the local playground. A shallow drop to the wood chips beneath. Even better: a small leap to the soft, grainy sand. They wish they could close their eyes to reassure themselves, but they know it’s not practical. It’d be a dangerous idea. Even the wistful thought is silly, in the first place. There’s no way to ignore their surroundings, anyway, nor their precarious position.

Instead, Becky pauses when they’re a third of the way through. She hesitates, stalling in place with Charlotte right behind her. The trunk doesn’t creak, nor does it crack. It doesn’t even wiggle, and the immediate air is silent. They hear animals rustling nearby. Unhindered by the rushing water’s white noise below, floating upwards and threatening to distract them. The redhead breathes through her nose, carefully easing her tension away. Despite her spurt of self-calming tactic, she doesn’t stop herself from looking back to Charlotte. She doesn’t stop herself from grabbing her hand, either.

Her partner is caught off-guard by the gesture, but laces their fingers together. Keeping them locked loosely but firmly, enough to reassure the treasure hunter that she’s with her, yet not enough to tug on her arm. Becky’s hand is sweaty against hers. Also slippery from the water’s mist. Still, she lightly grins through her own paranoia.

“You don’t trust I’ll go slow?”

Brown eyes raise to hers, the redhead ushering out a half-assed, frightened chuckle.

“No, this is more for my benefit.”

Their feet begin to move in sync, Charlotte paying attention with both hands now clasping Becky’s right. The historian stares at their movements, their foot patterns, while absentmindedly responding.

“Which benefit is that?”

“Balance.”

There’s an obvious double-take of the word. A twin meaning, different yet one and the same. The implication that they’re yin and yang. Two halves of a whole. Darkness and light. Explosive and calm. Also detailing the obvious fact that she’s keeping Becky’s posture sturdy, each woman acting like an anchor for the other while moving above fifty feet of open air. Not as big of a drop as earlier moments, but still a long fall. Not to mention the rocks below. Fallen pieces of Tew’s mansion, as well.

Becky hops off the tree’s ending before she all but pulls the other woman onto the cliffside with her. Not taking any risk of allowing the universe a split second to spite her. To let her breathe before ripping the roots out from the grassy rock beneath her shoes, only to have Charlotte fall into the water below. No way.

In spite of her jerky movements, the historian snickers. She can sense Becky’s side-eye at the world. Her gloating at the powers to be. If she was outright revealing of her feelings and thoughts, she’d be sticking her tongue out and making a funny noise at the sky.

Here, their hands unclasp as they sneakily duck down and scramble toward Avery’s front door. Hiding behind a decorative, stone wall that acts as a railing at the hill’s peak. It’s crumbled slightly, divots in multiple areas where Becky gathers a chalky substance on her fingers. Majorly intact, nonetheless. Charlotte crouches behind Becky, the pair of women making sure there are no stragglers. No leftover militia members to catch them before they manage to find Sasha and Bayley. No one to stunt their progress, or their mission.

“Think we’re good,” the Irish woman mutters, standing up.

After three or so stone steps tread, they’re staring directly at Avery’s front door. The massive, wooden, double barrier that keeps them from its innards. Dividing them from their friends. Upon notice, the doors are blocked, too. Pieces of furniture piled upwards and pushed against the other side as a blockade. A decorative, wooden leg of an armchair sticking out and notifying Becky of the tactic. Lacey’s men are proving to be real pains, she muses.

Against her already-knowing mind, she puts her shoulder to the barrier and tries to push it. The door creaks under the pressure, and the furniture thumps under the strain, but no avail. No real movement, and no leeway to let them through. She grunts, standing back.

“We’ll have to find another way in,” the hunter puts her hands on her hips, staring at the door’s height and Avery’s overall, larger-than-life domain. “They must’ve found a better trail. A reason to block it off,” her eyes flicker to Charlotte, the historian biting her inner cheek.

As Becky proceeds to search for another exit, jogging both left and right of the door, studying the windows and crevices of the tall, stone building, the blonde stares beyond New Devon’s right-hand wall. The surrounding barrier that wasn’t bursted to allow water inside, but still kept the city protected. Nowadays, it’s also rubbled to the ground and allowing oneself to peer past it. There, she sees numerous trucks parked at the very bottom of a slope. Around a bend, and sitting below. Waiting for their tactical owners to return. Her eyebrows raise.

“This Lacey woman doesn’t care about being subtle, does she?”

Her partner turns to see what she’s referring to. Brown eyes follow Charlotte’s gaze until the historian turns back to her, arms crossed and features pointed. Becky snickers, shaking her head.

“No, she does not.”

“She brought her entire army,” Charlotte rasps out, tense yet trying to stay positive ━ though she can’t help her following question. “What if they find the treasure before we get there?”

“Better hope not for Sasha and Bayley’s sake,” she stays away from being fauxly optimistic, this time, as it won’t do them any good. “Be on the lookout, too. That many vehicles means nothing good.”

“Mhm,” the historian agrees with a hum. “Don’t be afraid to shoot,” her tone drops into a seriousness ━ a knowingness ━ that Becky stiffens at.

It’s not that she’s afraid of Charlotte’s tone, or how she’s aware of the timidity regarding taking shots and firing at will, but the notion of likely needing to. They’re potentially on the cusp of fighting a war against an entire army. One that won’t hesitate to shoot them down in cold blood, or torture them, if need be. And while having Charlotte next to her calms Becky’s nerves relatively well, it also reminds the Irish woman that she’s protecting someone uber important to her now. Sure, she was before, but now that they’re on the same page? Now that she’s allowed Charlotte into her heart, and she’s opened herself up to her? That’s a whole different ball game.

Her lips seal in mild distress, giving her a pair of fragile eyes before nodding. She doesn’t deny that she’s been iffy about it. Not anymore. Maybe being open about it works in her favor, as she’s named the demon she has inside, and she’s giving him notice. She won’t let him win, but she’s acknowledged there’s an issue. From now on, she’ll work on defeating that inner turmoil. Baby steps, she reminds herself.

Through a breath, the hunter nods to the left-hand side of Avery’s mansion.

“This way,” Becky remembers the glimpse of ruined wall she caught before Charlotte stole her attention back. “There’s a space to crawl through over here.”

They walk close together, remaining cautious of probable foes lurking around the premises. Charlotte’s eyes drift around the area while Becky focuses on where they’re walking, listening to her partner’s footsteps in case they stop. In case there’s an issue, more importantly.

From what they can see, they’re about to slink into the chef’s kitchen of Avery’s mansion. There’s a stone floor, dusty and covered with stains as it’s dark aside from the waning light seeping in from the outside. At least it’s an entrance, she keeps positive.

Jumping into it, legs first, they get a better look at its interior. The wooden, butcher’s counter in the middle of the room. The multiple tables surrounding, stacked with cast-iron pots, pans, and glass jars. Cluttered to the maximum state, caked with dust and webs. Dark and muggy, clammy, feeling a humid waft of air consume their bodies as their eyes adjust to the lack of lighting.

There’s more streams illuminating from the opposite side of the kitchen, however. A hole in its ceiling, crashed from the second floor’s weight. Luckily, its rubble fell perfectly into a slope that they can use to propel themselves upwards. An easy climb to the second floor, just enough to put their forearms on the surface and pull their bodies onto the platform.

The Irish woman goes first, kicking her legs childishly until she manages to wiggle herself onto the equally dusty floor. She doesn’t allow herself to get sucked into the idea of being in Avery’s domain just yet, on the other hand.

Before anything, she turns around and helps Charlotte upwards. Their hands lock, the act coming without hesitation or second-guess, nowadays. It feels nice, they both think while sharing a smile. All before Becky stares past the historian, and they both realize the weight of the moment.

“We’re officially in Avery’s house,” it’s said with sheer astonishment, Becky’s chin lifting slowly to take everything in.

They’ve emerged into the study of his house, or what they presume to be. A gymnasium-sized room with a rectangular area combined with a round, tower-like structure. One with a domed ceiling over thirty feet above, murals painted along its rounded walls. Beams built into the rectangular ceiling, on the other side, being painted to perfection in order to match the flattened areas between each. Similar to the past mansions, golden aspects are found throughout the room. Candelabras, decorations, knobs on the elongated desk. Red curtains remind them of the past buildings, too. Five sets of them guarding the tower area’s handful of windows. There’s even a design upon the circular space’s ground, appearing similar to a sun with pointed rays. Colored a faint yellow, backgrounded with a grey-ish tone. Sitting atop it is a grand piano, and a harp. Some of the most serene facets of New Devon. Both women smile.

“Nothing short of grandiose, that’s for sure,” Charlotte muses, breaking Becky out of her mutual trance.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘ostentatious,’” she corrects, hearing her partner snort at the term.

“Someone’s been working on their vocabulary,” it’s teasing, then smug. “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

“I could just say, ‘woah,’ like Bayley does. Would still get the point across.”

The bittersweet statement is given with a soft grin. Charlotte detects the remorse settled beneath it. The weight that Becky is putting on her own shoulders for losing them. She feels sorry for the redhead, truly. Although they’ve established that, yeah, Becky has messed up often, Charlotte still believes them being taken wasn’t her fault. She might’ve not warned them fully about what would be happening, she might’ve been vague about the mission, but she would’ve never flat-out given them to someone in a trade-off. Becky isn’t _that_ selfish. She never was.

To lighten the mood and clear their minds, Charlotte changes the subject.

“I have a question for your theory.”

The other woman turns to her, nodding her head with a firm “Go.”

“Why did Tew go along with Avery’s shenanigans?” the initial inquisition comes with a pair of squinted, confused eyes. “Was he his apprentice or something?”

“Right-hand man, you could say,” she answers smoothly, like the answer is simple ━ or like she’s studied it before, Charlotte thinks. “Every pirate needs their other half, so to speak. No matter how crazy.”

Her eyebrows raise at the explanation. The room fills with silence again, Becky giving one last, intrigued hum to the space before her gaze wanders over to the only other blemish in the room: a second hole blown into the floor, similar to the last but leading further into the mansion’s main floor. In the direction of the front doors, more specifically.

“Down here,” the Irish woman crouches next to it, though doesn’t enter. “More mud,” she sighs, turning back to Charlotte.

The historian merely blinks at the notification. She’s so stoic that it gets a laugh from Becky, shaking her head. The impartial expression to the mudslide is telling; she knows they’re both sick of it, but, at this point, it’s nothing new.

Pursing her lips and getting ready for the slide, Becky plops herself down onto it and guards her face with her forearm. Unlike the other instances of using steep mudslides, the end of it leads to a marble floor. A slippery surface that she won’t crash into or scuff her body against. She very little needs to prepare herself for the ending. Still, her legs bend like usual, and she tries to steer herself as she enters the main hall. Her inertia increases as she nears the end, allowing herself to slide it out while muddying the floor more than it’s already been. There’s thick, brown substance everywhere around the area. Splashing remnants from Lacey’s men walking through, or so it appears.

As Charlotte braves the same obstacle until she’s joined Becky on the main floor, the redhead wipes herself off as much as possible. Her hands are primarily free of the substance, free of the grittiness of it, however her boots slip if she’s not careful enough. Much to her enjoyment, there’s a nearby piece of cloth. A bunched-up, fallen curtain to stomp her boots on. She sends a quiet apology out to Avery, but something tells her that he would’ve done the same. His obvious lack of morality existing in the gruesome scene just outside New Devon’s walls. Those skeletons hauled up within cages, left to rot. His fellow founders, too, wilted away within Tew’s dining hall.

“This is one thing I’m glad she’s not subtle about,” Charlotte’s voice causes Becky to turn around, the historian gesturing to the floor. “Her soldiers’ lack of cleaning up after themselves.”

Becky feels inclined to agree, eyebrows raising before it’s cut short by her partner’s next observation.

“Those are a _lot_ of footprints, Becks.”

She’s right. Quite frankly, the infinite tracks are so closely trailed that they nearly look like drag marks. The smudges contain the prints of at least forty men, give or take. They’re not sure if they’d rather not know how many enemies they’re up against, or if they’re relieved by the hint.

“Yeah,” it’s more so mouthed.

Becky wastes no time in slipping the firearm out from its holster, checking its rounds and readying it. A precaution, she hopes. Better safe than sorry, that type of thing. It makes a cocking sound that echoes between stone pillars within the entrance hall, the hunter giving the other woman a firm nod.

“Follow the prints.”

Moving away from the mudslide’s end, they pass the blocked front door. Its barrier is piled high, practically nine feet into the air. They took their time with adding pieces repeatedly, making sure they wouldn’t be able to get through easily. It only reminds Becky that they’re likely on the right trail.

Drifting off from the front door, parallel to the barrier, the many footsteps roam upwards along the gorgeous, main hall’s staircase. A wide fixture with polished wood steps covered in a red runner. Heading upwards approximately twenty feet until the upper level. Until the staircase is surrounded on three sides with sturdy, wooden railings and balconies that overlook the main floor. As if it’s Titanic’s grand staircase, but three times the size. As if it’s a giant loft with a chandelier in the middle, the upper level otherwise sided with a plethora of doors. Most of them are closed, they notice. Much like the other houses in New Devon.

Becky seals her lips, focusing on the footprints that take them around one of the thick pillars attaching the second floor to the tall ceiling. A nice, stone feature to oppose the majority’s wooden aspects. She slaps a hand against it, fingertips gliding away from its surface when the footsteps ultimately bring them to one of those closed doors. Actually, it’s another pair of double doors with golden handles, unlike the smaller doors, and it’s not completely shut. Again, it’s barricaded from the other side.

Becky sighs, shoulders slumping before she, another time, tries to push on it. Opposing the last, it budges a fraction. An inch or so cleared away, leaning into the space with a creak.

“Hey, this one has some give to it,” she fails to hide her excitement about something so mundane. “Help me push through,” her body slides over, giving Charlotte some room so they can shove against the same panel.

“On three?”

“Okay,” there’s a nod. “One━”

With a thick ping, a bullet gets lodged into the door’s surface, three inches from Becky’s forehead. They both go wide-eyed, Charlotte pulling her partner behind a stray crate that’s sat a foot away. Another, three bullets are peppered into the box’s outer surface, both women feeling the impact against their shoulders.

“I’m going to guess this was a set-up,” Charlotte worriedly laughs, although breathes.

Becky grits her teeth without responding, adjusting the gun before getting on her knees so she’ll have better leverage. Sneaking upwards, she manages to get out a pair of rounds. One misses the lone soldier, whizzing by his ear, but the other hits his arm. She ducks again.

They’re being closed in, however. Within the following second, another assailant rounds the corner so they’re sitting ducks. They’re in clear view of him. His arm raises, a handgun pointed in their direction, but Becky moves on instinct. She puts two shots into his clavicle area, dropping him instantly. She tries to push away the pride she achieves by getting out a pair of clean hits. Her arm lowers, then the man left surviving reminds them that he’s alive. Three rounds hit the wall behind them, falling to the ground.

“I need to get his gun,” Charlotte says while looking away from the dropped soldier, back at her partner. “We need another weapon before we move on.”

Becky’s mouth opens, not wanting to have to protect her so outright. It’s better if the blonde stays put, out of the fray, so Becky can keep them both safe in an isolated area. Charlotte notices her apprehension about the plan, her desolate eyes pleading with her to find another way. They hear the injured soldier take another shot or two in their direction with bangs shaking the hall, both women’s eyes slamming shut in a flinch. A third bullet is delayed, this time felt more against the box’s surface.

“It’s not far, okay?” she tries again, hand on Becky’s thigh in comfort. “Keep me covered. I trust you,” her thumb rubs in a tiny circle, dismantling her partner’s resolve.

At that, Becky nods decisively. Her heart pounds within her chest, especially as she watches Charlotte run out from behind the box. The soldier immediately goes on alert, moving his aim to the blonde before Becky shoots in his direction.

“Keep that gun on _me,_ lad. Got it?” the warning is given through a shaky chuckle, her jaw clenching, afterwards.

In an act of defiance, there’s a second attempt by the foe to send a few, good shots in Charlotte’s direction. No avail. Becky skims his arm again, singing his sleeve.

This time, he shouts something incoherent, something angry and white-hot, the redhead biting the tip of her tongue between her teeth. Again, he tries it at Charlotte, and finally Becky manages to drop him with her teeth gritting. With a thud, his body lands on the ground, lifeless. She sees a pool of blood growing where he lies, having to turn away from the sight. Her adrenaline doesn’t lessen, in the meantime.

She hears the sound of a gun sliding, Charlotte valiantly readying it, instantly. Appearing natural about the motion. Passive, almost. Like she’s used to it, or it’s something she’s done regularly. Becky quirks an eyebrow, given how the blonde hardly wanted to _look_ at a weapon, days ago.

There’s not much time to question her demeanor before they hear the march of heavy footsteps. The sound of running, yet sneakily so, echoing against the large space’s walls. They’re not sure where the sound is coming from due to the hall’s deflected noises, but both women notice. Their eyes flicker from area to area of the main hall and its balconies, scoping out the various wings and stairwell. Once Becky focuses back on Charlotte, however, she sees a soldier moving to sneak up behind her from a few yards away.

“Charlotte, behind you!” her forehead creases, shooting in the man’s direction as the blonde does the same.

“There they are! Flush them out!” another perpetrator’s instruction comes from an adjacent wing, a dozen or so soldiers flooding in from behind him with squeaking boots against marble.

Even worse: a dozen or so soldiers all equipped with pistols and automatic weapons. All ready to ambush the women, previously waiting in the shadows. Becky’s mouth opens at the amount of them, Charlotte hiding behind a pillar and taking shots whenever she’s able.

Suddenly, it sounds like a war-zone. Not only because of the space’s large echoing, but due to the firepower. The force of the bullets, the deflections against wooden surfaces and stone pillars. The sounds of groans and shouts muffled by the fare, in addition to the orders being given to the lesser soldiers. The orders of standing back, firing at once, following her moves and Charlotte’s moves. Bullets are peppered against the crate where she crouches, also flying overhead and embedding into the wooden panels behind her. They also flicker against the face of the pillar where Charlotte takes refuge. Every now and again, the redhead ducks in order to see her partner. Constantly making sure she’s safe and unscathed. Whenever she sees that they’re both still surviving, a deep breath fills her lungs before she adjusts her body and shoots forward once more.

They work close by without movement from their respective areas. Though, much to Becky’s discontent, there’s still a modest-sized gap between them. A space, keeping her away from making sure her partner is entirely safe. From the looks and sounds of it, whenever she glances over, Charlotte is holding her own. In fact, once the Irish woman focuses on the historian, she notices that she’s killing off men faster than Becky, herself, can. Doing it with a stoic expression, hardened features and an immediate trigger finger. Becky bares her teeth while finishing off another perpetrator, his blood splattering against the nearby wall before he’s fallen onto the floor and two of his brethren are running in her direction.

It’s all too similar when her gun jams. When it makes a clicking noise that she’s fixated on. Unlike the man from yesterday, however, the foes don’t wait to run at her. Sparked with anger, one man wraps around her torso, forearm to her throat and using her as a shield.

But, much to their confusion, his sidekick is dropped merely a foot away when Charlotte notices her partner’s predicament.

In the blink of an eye, the man’s grip against her throat lessens when he realizes that the soldier he’d been running with was shot down within milliseconds. He raises his eyes to see the blonde, not formulating a proper thought or making any movement before a bullet goes through his forehead.

Becky flinches with red flicking onto her cheek, almost being pulled down with the weight of his body when he collapses behind her.

The air stills. It’s quiet and settling. The remnants of warfare scattered around the second floor. Limp upon the red-carpeted stairs, draped over the balcony railings, fallen onto the hallway floors, and slumped against pillars.

Becky looks around, then at Charlotte who approaches. Surprisingly, hands are immediately on the redhead’s face, brushing the enemy’s stray blood from her cheek. A tender, caring gesture that calms them both where they stand. At the feeling, brown eyes are inquisitive yet childish, sparkling when she looks at Charlotte.

“I’m sorry,” the historian tries to apologize hastily, lip quivering. “I—I didn’t want to have to do that when he was so close to you, but I━”

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeats. “I would’ve done the same.”

Gingerly covering the woman’s hand, Becky manages to flash her a smile, though her throat feels dry and she’s mildly terrified of her partner’s aim. She sucks in a breath.

“Thank you,” Becky nods, and Charlotte mirrors it while dropping her hand to her side. “Not bad, by the way. What was that kill-count? Think you beat me, Your Majesty,” a shaky laugh exits her throat, the historian beaming.

“We’ll call it even, Hot Head.”

“Right,” with a nod, she begins to look around. “Grab whatever ammo you need. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of ‘em as we get closer.”

“Closer to Lacey or closer to the treasure?” Charlotte bends down, snatching multiple clips from a man’s belt.

“Yes,” Becky snorts as she answers both, the historian raising her eyebrows in agreement to the response.

The Irish woman opts to scavenge a new gun, plus more rounds of ammunition. At the same time, she comes across a small flashlight, tucked into one man’s tactical belt. She puts it in her backpack, along with further rounds. It’s a quick task, lasting about five minutes before she’s tugging her bag back onto her shoulders and walking toward the barricaded door.

“Now, let’s see what’s behind door number one,” her cheeky statement comes as she presses her shoulder to the barrier like Charlotte does next to her.

“Still on three?”

“How about ‘ready, set, go’?”

“You don’t want to jinx it, do you?”

“You _do?”_

Charlotte makes a face, in the end agreeing to Becky’s new plan. She nods.

“Ready, set, _go.”_

They both huff, slamming their shoulders into the door. It budges another inch or two. Not enough to sneak through the crack, however.

“Again.”

With a thud, another three inches are cleared, and Becky can peek into the following room. She can’t see much aside from natural light and the remnants of furniture pieces toward the floor. Her shoulder aches, throbbing against the wood it leans to, but they need to finish the task.

“One more time.”

Following an extra wind-up, the two all but run at the door. It crashes through, this time.

Charlotte manages to sturdy herself against the other door’s edge, meanwhile watching Becky go flailing straight into a couch with a braced thud. More specifically, she goes flailing into a couch where a skeleton sits, her nose ending up not even a pinky’s width away from his hung-open mouth.

On instinct, she jumps away with bugging eyes and a stiffened posture. A _“yikes”_ face, too. Charlotte snickers, but lessens her acute amusement when she sees a folded note sitting next to him on the red couch. She picks it up, delicately unfolding it with a crease in her forehead.

Not noticing, brown eyes search the area. It’s a brief corridor, lined with greys. A muddied, grey floor, grey walls, grey ceiling. Gold embossings detailing the panels on the walls, much like the other places. However, it lacks the red accents. There are decorative candle holders on the wall, a mirror in a single alcove within the hallway with a skinny, wooden table beneath it. All in all, it’s a small, shiny corridor with a window at the very end, allowing light to stream through. The only other pass-through of the hallway is at the opposite end from which they entered: a single pair of double doors, cut into the eastern wall. After that, they’ll be in the opposite wing of the house from which they originally found their way into the mansion.

Becky hears a paper rustling, looking at Charlotte and finally seeing the note in her hands. Her mouth is curved into the tiniest pout, already reading to herself.

“What’s that?”

“A letter,” her voice is smooth, curious and nearly skeptical about it. “Signed by Avery, himself,” ocean eyes lift to Becky’s face, seeing how she blinks in mild surprise.

They begin to walk, albeit very slowly. Charlotte, meanwhile, reads the note aloud.

_“My loyal subjects, as the sun sets on our glorious Paradise, we must endeavor to preserve its riches. To that end we have expelled its weakest elements. The traitorous Tew knows our secrets, so we must act quickly. Destroy the dam. Cleanse New Devon, and move my treasure through the passage to my ship.”_

“They turned on each other,” the redhead muses, mouth remaining open, afterwards.

“No surprise there.”

They reach the double doors where the muddy footprints disappear into. Becky doesn’t push their way inside, just yet. Instead, Charlotte taps her arm and offers the note. A nice keepsake, for the trip. The historian smiles gently, tenderly, and the Irish woman matches it with a soft “Thank you” that speaks volumes within her eyes.

It’s slid into her backpack, Becky hoping it won’t get damaged by the remaining wetness inside. She’s sure it wouldn’t fare much better within her journal, anyway. After, she refocuses on the doors ahead of them.

 _“And_ door number two.”

Her palms place to the surface, this time the door being unobstructed. They enter easily, with a small amount of creaking from the hinges.

Both women observe the new space, looking similar to the first study that held the piano and harp. There’s still the circular tower-like area, however it’s cluttered with a desk, a standing globe, and multiple decor pieces. There’s a couch in the rectangular room, this time. A fireplace in front of it. Being a casual living space, almost. Tucked into the corner is a large, spiral staircase that leads up to a library loft. Something amazing, that Charlotte’s mouth opens at as she stares at it all. Becky pays more attention to the trophy swords on one wall, mounted to perfection. It’s all so magnificent. Breathtaking, truly.

The treasure hunter turns to her partner, watching her slowly spin in place while trying to see all the books up above. All the cabinets, too, at the end of the staircase. She smiles endearingly.

“Should I give you a minute?”

Charlotte lowers her chin, a faint shade of blush on her cheeks as she seals her lips.

“No, I’m good. It’s just so… _benign._ Compared to what we’ve seen. The piano, from before, and just… it reminds you that they were also human. At times, they were monsters. But this room makes Avery seem relatively normal. It’s incredible.”

Becky keeps a small grin on her face, nodding in agreement. She doesn’t break the historian’s trance, however Charlotte shakes her head and passes the other woman. Her feet take her further into the room, more so into the tower-like area with the sun painted onto the marble.

“The footprints end here,” she frowns at the discovery, how they end so abruptly and with no evidence being otherwise found.

She looks around, turning her head this way and that while trying to see if they’d backtracked into the hallway again. Even Becky frowns heavily, though a scoff comes from her throat.

“That can’t be right,” she passes Charlotte, looking at the floor just the same. “The mud on their shoes wouldn’t just evaporate.”

“I know, but... they just end.”

The blonde looks back at the door, chewing her inner cheek in thought. No theories come up within her mind. She can’t even formulate a good guess as to what happened or where they went. Why the footprints stopped being patterned against the beautiful floor, moreover. Becky doesn’t respond to her statement, either. Not directly, at least. Not until a puzzled hum comes from her throat, Charlotte hearing it behind her without turning to the source.

“Hey, uh, Charlie,” it sounds inquisitive, curious while tilting her head to the side. “Did we pass by any flowerbeds here in New Devon?” she’s not looking in the other woman’s direction, staring directly at the toe of her boots.

She bends down to the ground, Charlotte chuckling at her randomness while asking a quick “What?”

Once she turns to face her partner, a small, golden flower is pinched between her fingertips. A semi-squished yet mostly intact flower. Showing Charlotte the finding, a tiny smirk on her face. A cunning expression, more like. They both know what it is. Unmistakably, it’s one of the flowers that Bayley picked up while in Libertalia. When they first arrived in the town, wandering and observing everything, only to turn around and see Bayley predominantly fixated on the compact patch of yellow flowers. She looked so enthralled, so happy. Becky knew she picked some to take. Here, she gets her confirmation.

More than that, they get confirmation that what they need to search for is in this room. The way to pick up on the muddy trail again. Where everyone disappeared to. Bayley is telling them something, leaving the flower behind to rest atop the prints. Not squished into the mud, not trampled. No, it was laid delicately on top of the surface. Intact, being deliberately set as a clue. Tossed from her pocket as it floated through the air and down to the floor while no soldiers noticed.

The brunette’s will to bide her time while inconspicuously fighting back is uncanny. It’s incredible, and the Irish woman feels prideful. She feels inspired to do better, herself. To think harder, and more critically. To pick up on this obvious hint and follow it, most importantly. To not let her friends down.

Becky shakes her head in slight disbelief at Bayley’s quick thinking, not being able to help the big smile that appears on her face. The few tears that spring into her eyes, as well.

“Looks like my navigator’s still helpin’ us through. That’a girl,” the flower is gently slid into her bag for safe keeping.

“That doesn’t answer where they went, though,” Charlotte’s forehead creases again, shrugging partly while staring at the other woman.

“There has to be something,” brown eyes widen for a second. “The passage Avery mentioned?” she refers to the note.

Her partner nods before they begin to search. Becky moves over to a statue head, sat between the first and second windows of the rounded area. It’s on a pedestal, looking like a basic likeness of Avery, himself. She picks it up carefully, moving it in her hands and observing its vacant eyes. It’s placed back down, once she notices that it’s nothing special.

Behind her, Charlotte opens the few books atop the desk. Merely flipping open their covers, shifting them aside, and moving across the desk in search of something specific yet unknown. A button, maybe. A secret compartment somewhere.

Her gaze shifts to the right, noting the globe. Her shoulders ease downward.

Becky sizes up a suit of armor, nearby. Poking its chest protector, all but checking out the model while leaning her head toward its backside. Her eyes squint, moving its arm.

Before she drops it back to the knight’s side when the ground begins to shake, that is. The Irish woman turns around with a minute sense of panic, though it turns into that of dumbfounded shock and a mixture of enjoyment when she sees a large staircase forming from the floor. Leading down into a dark space, a scraping noise filling the air with dust puffing up until it all stops.

“What did you do?” it’s accusing but entertained, Becky looking at Charlotte who wears the tiniest grin.

“There’s a little button where Libertalia is,” her thumb is held up to the globe’s surface, lingering above its polished seal. “I pushed it,” she shrugs one shoulder.

“Good work,” her jaw is slack as she moves closer to its mouth, looking down into the dungeon-esque area while still surprised.

A pair of ocean eyes bore into her temple, Charlotte giving Becky a flirtatious “Thank you” that causes the redhead to clear her throat.

She shakes it off with a chuckle, blinking.

“Shall we?” Charlotte asks, smirking.

“We shall.”

This time, the blonde goes first. The steps are steeper than normal, needing to be careful as they slowly turn right in a spiral feature. Not as curved as a normal, spiral staircase, but enough to be a winding turn. As they move downward, it becomes darker, and Becky is forced to fish the flashlight from her bag.

She clicks it on, illuminating the space as they wait at the bottom stair. Not moving from the area, as well. Staying in place, and checking out their new surroundings, first.

They hear water droplets, echoing within the stone walls around them. For the entrance portion, it’s completely smoothed out. The floor is cobblestone with muddy steps reappearing, the walls are brick with unlit, wooden torches set upon them, and the ceiling is intact. There’s a wrought-iron gate a few yards ahead of them, too. Blocking them from continuing. Becky notes the age of everything, and how muggy it feels. They can’t feel any fresh air, at all. Leading her to believe that they’re nowhere near the exit. Who knows how far the tunnel stretches, or if it’s a single tunnel, at all. Her mouth opens, sucking in a sharp breath. Beyond the gate is an absolute labyrinth, and she knows it.

“I’ll get the gate open,” Becky says, handing the flashlight to Charlotte.

The historian focuses the beam on where her partner walks, also observing their surroundings. It’s not a place that would cause claustrophobia solely due to lack of space. It’s quite roomy, actually. However, she’s never been a fan of tunnels. Judging by Becky’s frigid posture, she’s never been one, either.

Becky curls her fingers beneath the gate’s underside, using her full strength to ease it above her head. Charlotte scuffles beneath, ducking her head until she’s on the other side. The Irish woman feels resistance against the gate. A locking mechanism that keeps it upwards. She breathes out, joining Charlotte.

The flashlight is handed back to her with a keen smile. Becky notes the fullness of her cheeks through the scarce light. How she still manages to make such a cold setting feel warm and lighthearted. Becky’s heart eases in her chest, fluttering.

Until there’s a crash behind them.

Both women jump practically out of their skin, twisting rapidly to find that the gate has slammed shut behind them. Next, the stairs withdraw back into the ceiling, leaving no natural light to filter into the cave. Becky nearly whines at it. Outwardly, her shoulders slump. She should’ve figured it would happen, really.

“Typical,” she mutters.

“Guess there’s no turning back now,” Charlotte comments, Becky facing her.

“Still happy you’re here?” the redhead reminds her partner of the words they shared back in Tew’s dining hall, getting a snicker.

“With you?” her attitude is collected, smiling in spite of the current scenario with her eyes squinting in playfulness. “I think I can deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAYLEY COME THRU. No, but truly. It's about time we see more pirate mechanics. I feel we haven't seen many puzzles/secret rooms since, like, the globe chamber many, many chapters ago. Luckily, we'll be seeing more of those mechanics p soon. Though, I'm not sure how lucky it is...
> 
> So, here we've gotten a taste of how Charlynch work together when it comes to gunfire. It's a lot different than their first encounter on the island with Becky saving Charlotte's neck yet Charlotte taking to it very... angrily. It's a mirror of that, kinda, in a sense that they've grown from it. Charlotte is super skilled (dare I say more skilled than Becky, when it comes to shooting), and she's going to hold her own for the remainder of this story. It's nice to see her grow into that type of person, primarily on Becky's behalf. They want to protect each other.
> 
> I know this chapter was short (so short, I don't have much to say!), but, alas, next update is longer. Dare I spoil that we'll see Baysha again. It's about time we got a new look at them, huh? We'll see everyone venture into this tunnels, and let's just say it gives Charlynch the proper confinement to have a nice heart-to-heart. A light one, but something unbelievably necessary. So, pay attention to it once it happens. I promise, you'll need to read between the lines.
> 
> Speaking of next chapter... instead of this being my last update before the break, I'm gonna post next chapter on my normal schedule, THEN I'll break. Camille advised me so for a specific reason (read: so we can see Baysha again before I break), plus I was leaning that way for my own tastes (read: I miss Baysha so I'd be inclined to agree). I'm already working on the final stretch (I think I said this before) of chapters, so that's a plus. God, we're so close to the end...
> 
> Until next time, my friends. Thanks for reading!


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's day's been good. Had a total allergy flare-up today, so I surprisingly made it through this revising. Could hardly see while I did it, but we managed! 
> 
> Read away, my friends.
> 
> P.S. This is one of my favorite chapters. I hope it's one of yours, too.

TUES., 11:29 A.M.

* * *

A pebble is kicked by the toe of her right boot. It creates an echoing sound of gravel being tread upon, scuffed along, bouncing between the walls of the pitch-black tunnel illuminated by a single flashlight.

Beside them, below them, and above them, the tunnel has become less paved and more so raw stone with broken remnants scrambled upon the floor. Roots hanging from the ceiling, as well, looking like wires. Or worse: like snakes. A hollowed tunnel excavated solely to be wide enough for a band of travelers to pass through, although not exquisite like the beginning had been. No longer freshly scraped, or cemented together like brickwork intentionally set for the purpose of a dungeon. Now, it’s untouched rock surrounding them. Simple mountainside turned hideout, or passthrough. A secret labyrinth hidden below the mansion, used for quick escapes that lead… _somewhere._ Somewhere that Avery’s treasure could be taken quickly, hastily, ready to toss it into his ship ━ as per the note Charlotte found.

Becky looks at her feet, nearly stumbling over an uneven rock piece protruding out from the floor. She imagines that the wooden carts Avery's treasure was wheeled along with would’ve had a few bruises from the venture, afterwards. She imagines a wheel getting stuck on a stray rock. The cart maybe toppling over, at one point. God only knows they’ve been watching their footing since the beginning of this expedition below the mansion. It’s not the most kempt overall, however the floor is especially cluttered with rubble and fallen rocks abound. Atop those muddy footprints, as well, larger slabs of boulder sit against the walls.

A breath is taken, brown eyes staring ahead at the endless darkness while keeping to herself.

“God, I already miss the daylight,” breaking the quietude, Charlotte comments before shaking her head from what Becky can see through the flashlight’s allowance.

“Yeah,” the redhead agrees with little to no emotion, pursing her lips while hearing the historian kick ahead a stone.

The space between them falls silent again. Comfortably so, but still noticeable. Before Becky disrupts it by digging into her backpack, that is. The bag is slouched as it dangles from one bicep, the woman scavenging through it with a creased brow while Charlotte turns to her. Finally, she pulls out two granola bars. One is presented to the blonde, after a beat.

“Here,” it comes with a light smile. “Gotta keep up your strength little by little. Who knows how long we’ll be walkin’ down here.”

“Mm,” her eyes widen a fraction, taking it graciously and unwrapping the bar as they wander. “Do you think the treasure’s still on the island?” Charlotte opts to make light chit-chat with a mouthful. “Since he wanted it moved.”

“Not sure,” Becky says, indifferent as she examines her bar before taking another bite. “At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was no treasure at all.”

It’s so mindless, so passive, that Charlotte frowns. Her chewing stops, too. Becky continues eating her bar, oblivious to the puzzled nature of the historian’s reaction.

“What do you mean?”

When the Irish woman faces her partner, she sees the clear befuddlement upon her face. The look of borderline annoyance with the idea. Not annoyance directed at Becky, no, but the irritation in regards to the plausible notion that Avery’s treasure could be long gone ━ or not existing, in the first place.

She swallows the bite she was working on, having to clear her throat of a stray piece of granola.

“Let’s just say this is the goosiest of reckless chases,” a silly grin is flashed in the blonde’s direction. “That I’ve been on, at least,” the wrapper is crumpled in her fist, shoving it into her backpack.

“Out of the two other hunts I’ve taken part in, I’d have to agree this takes the cake.”

“Oh, I could go for some cake,” Becky muses beneath her breath, taking Charlotte’s wrapper and giving it the same fate within her bag.

The other woman snickers at her outright daydreaming about cake. She’d have to agree, though, by now, her tastes are more so pleading for just about anything other than what they’ve been eating.

“I could go for anything besides breakfast bars and unfiltered water,” Charlotte voices the thought.

“I’ll take you out for somethin’,” traces of hopefulness are detected within the statement without Becky turning to her.

“Will you?” she makes sure to show her interest, wearing raised eyebrows.

“Well, you know, if you want me to.”

“Are you saying you’ll take me out on a date?” Charlotte smiles heavily, hearing the Irish woman all but bark out a laugh from being frazzled by the reaction.

She beams just as much, her cheeks blushing.

“Yes, Charlie, I’d like to take you out on a date once we get back home.”

At this, the blonde’s amusement shifts into a new area. One that questions a single word within her partner’s rebuttal.

“Home?”

Becky lifts her chin, simply responding, “The mainland.”

The matter-of-factly tone she uses piques Charlotte’s interest. It reminds her of a question she’s had for a while. She remembers Becky’s statement back in one of the mansions of New Devon, and how the redhead claimed she wasn’t living anywhere. How she claimed she moves wherever the treasure takes her.

A nervous lump grows within Charlotte’s throat. A desire to voice her curiosity, asking where Becky is bound to roam, once they leave the island. Once they go on that date, too, if the hunter is sincere. Charlotte wants to stick by her partner’s side, if she’s allowed. But she’s also not sure if they’re at that level of whatever-it-is, just yet. Whatever this relationship is, more specifically. If it’s a relationship, at all, or if it will be. She’s not sure if Becky wants to be “tied down” for the long-term, or what. Although it’s obvious ━ verbalized, too ━ that last night wasn’t a one-night-stand type of encounter, they still haven’t spoken about what it possibly means for them. If it made them exclusive, or if it merely made them aware of their feelings for each other.

Still, as they walk through these dark caverns together, the blonde supposes there’s no better time to ask about Becky’s future plans. To make gentle conversation ━ _deep_ conversation ━ that keeps them from feeling like the walls are closing in on them.

A breath exits her nostrils, hesitantly glancing in the hunter’s direction time and time again. Until she finally settles on her profile, at least.

“Where do you plan on going after this? After we get back, and the dust settles?”

 _“Psh,”_ she makes a weird noise, somewhat caught off-guard before actually thinking. “I don’t know,” it’s honest, spoken with a half-shrug. “I haven’t thought about it.”

The other woman is silent, thinking that’s the end of the topic. So much for deep conversation, she thinks. Although, within seconds, she’s much surprised and pleased when that’s not the case.

“You have any ideas?” Becky’s eyes are lit by the flashlight beam’s outer ring.

“For you?”

“Yeah.”

Charlotte rubs her lips together. Her eyebrows raise slightly, making a face as she pretends to think hard. Becky softly chuckles at the way her gaze squints in contemplation, looking down to avoid a rock set in front of her.

“There are endless options,” the initial statement is vague. “Depends on if you’re trying to settle down or not.”

The moment she faces Becky is a vulnerable one. The Irish woman detects the shyness in the motion. The way she looks at her, then instantly turns away with her posture straightening. As if she’d spooked herself by the implication within her words.

Brown eyes don’t stop boring into her temple, however. Her heart feels just as heavy, just as longing. Just as wrapped up in whatever they are. Not to mention the far-out idea of them running away together and perhaps settling down somewhere, in the future. Near or far, Becky thinks. Her throat tightens, having to part her lips to suck in a breath.

“Do you think I could manage that?” when the redhead next speaks, it’s quiet and timid. “Be honest,” her eyes are pleading with Charlotte, head tilted minutely as though in lecture. “Not just optimistic because you feel you _have_ to be.”

Charlotte notices the acute sadness within her eyes. The nervousness in regards to finally staying put somewhere and retiring like she and Paige planned on doing. It’s undeniable that Becky is scared of not being “cut out” to do something so mundane with herself, after this. It’s undeniable that she wonders if that’s for her, or if she’s a lost cause when it comes to settling. When it comes to calming down and pretending to be normal. Society’s definition of it, technically.

The historian frowns at the question ━ at her sheer anxiety in response to the idea. A pang of solemness clouds her heart, knowing that Becky has never had someone to hold her hand, even in the face of smaller things. In the face of the most basic, humane things. She’s never had someone to sit around and watch TV with, or someone to cook breakfast with. For Becky, it was always motel rooms and bars. Always getting ready with simple meals in order to prepare for her next adventure with Paige. And although that’s always been the hunter’s lifestyle, it’s also never been anything solid. It’s never been anything cohesive, or constant.

She wishes to change that, in all honesty. She wishes to prove to Becky that she holds the same capability of settling down as anyone else does, as long as she lets herself believe it.

“Becks, I think you can manage anything you set your mind to,” her lips curve into an encouraging smile, albeit bittersweet. “Look at where we are. Most people haven’t even _heard_ of Henry Avery, or Libertalia. Hell, we didn’t even know New Devon existed until we got here. But you managed to get here, in one piece, after taking endless risks,” the redhead looks at her, shyly. “You’ve done more in _days_ than what most people have in a lifetime.”

No response. Charlotte sees Becky give her a tiny nod, though.

“I think settling down somewhere would be a walk in the park for you,” Charlotte continues, now giving her a bigger grin. “Might be a little boring for your tastes, but—”

“We can change that,” the interruption is quick, Becky not straying away from surprising both of them with her conviction ━ not to mention her own implications.

Their following eye contact is telling. It’s heavy, and holds massive amounts of words they wish to say but can’t find the strength to, yet. Their footsteps even slow down upon the cave floor, though they don’t stop wholly.

Not until they’re interrupted by a loud, echoing bang that shakes their surroundings. Their bodies stiffen, eyes set in front of them. Unblinking. It sounds like an earthquake brought on by an explosion, tailed by the sound of rocks trickling down. Everything stops after ten seconds, falling quiet again. Both women breathe out, their hearts racing within their chests.

“Are they _seriously_ using dynamite down here?” Charlotte frowns so heavily, her mouth opens. “Was that what it was?” she turns to Becky, the Irish woman’s eyebrows raising.

“It appears so,” through disbelief, she chuckles. “Stay close,” she gestures for the historian to walk brushed against her side. “I don’t trust these tunnels.”

Her partner doesn’t disagree, nor does she deny the request of walking close. In fact, she brushes their pinkies as they proceed to move forward. They regain their path from before, their blood pressure settling from the prior interruption.

Becky is lost in her head, though. She still thinks about the conversation, and how it cleared her mind, even if a small amount. Admittedly, she loves the idea of sticking close to Charlotte, once they leave here. Once they’re back on the mainland, that is. But, then again, the thought of the historian perhaps having the window of opportunity to abandon her is hard to ignore. The idea that the blonde’s head could perhaps clear of the dream-like fog, and realize that they’re better off apart.

So, maybe “abandoning” isn’t the right word. She knows that Charlotte wouldn’t outright drop her on her ass and run. She knows they’re past that, and she knows they’ve gotten better. She knows how the other woman feels about her, most importantly. At the same time, it’s the unknown that continues to pester the redhead. The unknown of what Charlotte plans for herself, after this trip is over. What she wishes to do with the rest of her life. If she wants to stick with Becky’s back-and-forth self ━ her _conflicted_ self ━ or if that’d be too much for her to handle, in the long run.

The treasure hunter kicks a stone. She hears it bounce three times before it hits the wall and spins in place. They pass it again, Becky meanwhile working up the nerve to ask Charlotte about her plans.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Does the infamous Charlotte Flair plan on staying put in Norway forever?” she smiles as she says it, genuinely curious.

The blonde laughs, “I don’t know.”

“Because, I’ve gotta tell ya, you didn’t look content when I saw you there,” Becky bumps the other woman’s shoulder as they walk, smirking.

“That was mostly because I was shocked when you walked in,” it’s pointed, self-explanatory as her tone flattens.

“Annoyed, you mean?”

Charlotte smiles big, again laughing.

“I was trying to be nice.”

Her partner matches the expression, beaming about their first encounter after everything went down. She remembers the dreadful look on Charlotte’s face. The way the historian so-vehemently pretended that Becky wasn’t standing feet away from her. The Irish woman also remembers how she had no idea how to broach the conversation, but how she kept herself closed off by being an absolute pest. Poking at the blonde repeatedly until she finally gave in.

Though, nowadays, the memory is somewhat callus as she recalls fibbing to her partner in hopes of getting her way, she still smiles at how her heart swelled from seeing Charlotte again. How all she wanted to do was learn her mind another time. How she wanted to become reacquainted with the one person who’d always stayed in her thoughts, no matter what. Now, she has that. Her smile remains, though lessens.

Next to her, Charlotte’s features do the same. After her mind recalls the scenario from her own point of view, she thinks about the museum. Her livelihood, practically. Despite the job oftentimes being a royal pain the ass, she’d worked so hard to further herself within the realm of history. Sure, it may be somewhat dull, and, quite frankly, she’s become way more enthralled with _this_ type of history than what she’s come to know, but she’s still put so many hours into becoming a historian. She’d hate to feel as though she’s wasted her life studying to turn herself into someone that, ultimately, she abandons. It’s a tough thought.

She sighs, Becky side-eyeing her.

“That’s another thing, though,” Charlotte’s head bows. “The museum’s there. That’s basically the extent of my social life and life as a whole. Where would I go?”

“Where would you want to go?” Becky makes it sound so easy. “Any place. To live or to travel,” she tilts her head to the side, keeping the conversation lighthearted.

Ocean eyes stare at her. Judgingly, at first. Wanting to eye-roll at how cheeky Becky appears, and how there’s an underlying layer of smugness. Soon, she entertains the thought. She wets her lips, then chews her inner cheek. Thinking hard about the question, digging into her memory that spans years upon years backwards.

“I’ve always wanted to buy a little cottage on the water,” there’s a quietness in the way she says it, like she’s hoping she won’t be laughed at. “Not just attached to the water, but literally on top of it. Not far from the shore, but enough to have seclusion. It’d have its own dock to the land, but otherwise... it’d be mine,” her features are wistful, dream-like, and Becky smiles. “Away from almost everything else, scenic and calming.”

“Sounds magnificent,” her response is practically mouthed.

“It does, doesn’t it?” the historian turns to her, happy that Becky sounds equally as invested in the imagery of it.

Becky stares at her, nodding before saying, “Make it happen.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” it’s not cracked, nor forceful, but she merely asks with a delicacy. “The museum will be fine, and you’ll figure out a new life. One that brings you happiness and the serenity you seem so fond of.”

Her mouth opens, not having a good rebuttal. She can’t think of another excuse to give Becky. Part of her doesn’t want to, anyway. Truthfully, she knows the woman holds a bundle of valid points. She’s not the happiest in Norway ━ at least not at the museum ━ and she’d hate to feel unfulfilled for the rest of her life. The taste of fulfillment she’s acquired here has been nothing short of miraculous and amazing. Perfect, quite frankly. It’s reassured her of the reason why Becky does this, and she’s obtained a better perspective on why the redhead does this for a living. In its own way, it quenches a thirst for adventure that Charlotte didn’t even know she had. And, although a cottage on a lake wouldn’t be the most adventurous, it would open the door for a lot more spare time and miniature vacations where she could keep herself satisfied.

Maybe it could also be Becky’s happy medium. Seclusion and calmness, but the liberty to take trips and head out, as she pleases. They could do it together.

Charlotte breathes out at the idea, worrying at her lower lip.

“We’ll have to see.”

Much to her happiness, her partner catches the underlying hint. The hint of them perhaps making the cottage a reality, and this whimsical idea of reinventing themselves. Their lives, truly.

“We will,” Becky smiles, nodding while staring at her fully.

To solidify the notion that she picked up on what Charlotte really said, Becky reaches for her hand. She holds onto it, bringing it to her lips and kissing the back. It’s a brief gesture, but the blonde beams at the feeling she gets. She knows what Becky means, and she knows that they understand each other. It’s enlightening and makes her feel at ease.

What _doesn’t_ make her feel at ease is the second interruption in their keen banter.

Within the next, three steps, they’re entering a widened scape of cave. A room, more like. One with square, wooden platforms appearing like a single-colored checkerboard. As they look through a single, empty space, they see that all platforms are set hovering above a deep pit. A bed of spikes, actually. Upon one spike in the free space is a soldier from Lacey’s army, freshly poked like a kebab with blood trickling from his mouth. Left to rot there, until the end of time. They both swallow hard at the gruesome sight.

“Alright, let’s just━”

“Stop,” Charlotte pulls her back forcibly, the redhead nearly falling onto her ass.

Becky frowns as she looks at her partner, the blonde’s finger pointing at one of the boards. One of the boards with a red keg of dynamite strapped beneath, waiting to blow up due to newfound pressure. If they were to walk upon one of the dynamite-riddled boards, they could kiss their lives goodbye.

“Whew,” the Irish woman breathes out, “good call.”

“Walk where the footprints are,” she wears a giant frown, keeping her hand on Becky’s shoulder as they inch closer to the obstacle’s first, five-by-five foot board.

“Right, right,” it’s mindless, hardly paying attention to what she’s saying when she begins to trace the muddy tracks.

The first step onto the entrance platform is the worst. It’s the hardest to take, and the most gut-wrenching. The menacing creak it brings being the first and foremost reason that they’re so put off by it.

Once the toe of Becky’s boot touches down onto the wooden surface, they can hear the slivers within the square splitting little by little. Charlotte makes a face from where she still stands on solid rock, teeth pinched together tightly. Becky, herself, has her eyes slam shut as she stalls in place. One foot on the platform, the other staying attached to sturdy ground. All while wishing there was another way to get through, yet knowing there isn’t. Unfortunately, they have to brave this obstacle.

Charlotte doesn’t wish to let her partner tread it alone before she does. She wants to go with her, and stomach it together. After all, she sees the redhead freezing in place repeatedly, and she hasn’t taken more than a single step, yet.

Without further ado, the historian gingerly wraps her fingers around the other woman’s wrist. Feeling their skin stick together with the thin layer of sweat and moisture from the surrounding air. Not to mention a result of the impending stress on their minds. Next, she steps onto the same platform as Becky. Both women now stood atop the swaying structure while praying it doesn’t buckle. While praying it doesn’t snap, or topple over, or ━ worst case scenario ━ touch a keg of dynamite enough to ignite it.

The thought earns a shaky breath from the Irish woman. More like an exhale of disbelief mixed with gradual alleviation when they make it to the second square. She’s not sure how many more they have to go. Her body is too tense to conquer the math while her eyes follow the trail. One thing’s for certain: it’s a winding path of footprints moving straight, right, left, then straight to the other side of the gorge. A zig-zag pattern, once moving diagonally. Truly, neither of the women ever thought they’d miss the bumpy cave ground this much.

Becky feels both of Charlotte’s hands holding onto her wrist and forearm for dear life. The redhead’s arm is outstretched, leaving her a modest amount of room to walk freely. Also enough room to shove Charlotte backwards onto one of the mud-marked squares in case something were to go awry in front of them. But she wouldn’t dare tell the blonde that plan.

They make it to the following square. Welcomed onto it with another creak, and both of them feel the wood sway back and forth atop a single, skinny pillar. It wiggles past its brethren hardly an inch’s worth, but enough for them to notice. Both Becky and Charlotte clench their insides, letting out a collective breath once the air falls silent and unmoving again.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t creak so much,” the historian remarks through gritted teeth, moving in tandem with Becky to the next platform.

“What, the swaying isn’t enough on its own?” her partner plays, though Charlotte detects the nervousness in her words ━ the dryness, too.

It’s further shown when Becky clears her throat. When she, then, opens her mouth after swallowing heavily. The blonde detects her anxiety about it, feeling the other woman’s hand vibrating against hers.

Still, they move slowly and calculatively. Becky licks her lips, shining the flashlight down in front of them. Using its beam to trace the muddy footprints winding against the boards. Since the paths are smaller than the tunnels, they can hardly make out the shapes of each print. Now, they look more like drag marks than anything clean-cut. At least it shows them the correct way to go, they think.

Charlotte breathes out when she sees that they’re nearly through. Two more tiles to walk along, first crossing the diagonal piece. It’s more unnerving than the rest, knowing they can’t even just barely nudge against the dynamite-strapped squares surrounding them.

Breaking apart for a moment, Becky goes first in lunging across the two corners, making sure she steps directly in the center of each until she’s passed it. Once finished, the hunter peers over her shoulder to see her partner doing the same. Their hands rejoin, and they finally complete Avery’s tunnel trap. Though, at the same time, Becky wants to whine at the idea of facing more of them in the future.

There’s a moment of pause in which they breathe once they’re standing under the threshold to leave the room. They both hunch over, hands on their knees with the flashlight gently clutched in Becky’s balled fist, letting their bodies uncoil. Letting them release the built-up tension and the _what if_ ’s about if they hadn’t made it through the odd-looking booby trap.

“You good?” Charlotte checks on Becky, placing a hand on her back before it’s straightened out.

“Yeah,” it’s given through an airy laugh, the redhead nodding.

Her arm gives the next room a grandiose gesture, Charlotte smiling at her dramatics before passing the other woman. It’s a small slope and a brief hallway until they’re entering another, hollowed-out room.

This time, there are no boards on the floor, nor is there a trap. However, there’s a pillar-like structure in the middle of the space, leading up to a crashed-through hole in the ceiling. On the sides of the area, there are multiple, different paths leading out of the clearing, though two are caved in with rocks. The last, much to Becky’s annoyance, is caved in with wooden beams and other materials. There’s still smoke seeping out from between the cracks, as well. It’s a fresh cave in, she decides, and the muddy footsteps lead right to it. She also smells explosive material, wishing to roll her eyes.

“They must’ve made it through before it caved in,” the blonde observes as she walks closer to where Becky crouches, running her fingers along the dusty surface.

“Or they _made_ it cave in,” a brown gaze peers up at her partner, earning a head-nod.

“Very plausible.”

Becky puts her palms to her thighs and pushes herself upwards. Meanwhile, Charlotte tilts her head to the side and examines the rubble further.

“Looks like Avery had some gibbets leftover.”

“Some... _what?”_

“Gibbets,” the blonde repeats.

Her forehead creases, trying to figure out what her partner is saying by looking at the cave-in. There, she finds what Charlotte is referring to: one of the cages that the skeletons were hauled up into. The only other thing within the pile aside from boards and scrap pieces of wood.

“Those cage-thingies have a name?” it’s laced with skepticism and mild intrigue, partly due to wondering where Charlotte learned that, as she didn’t know they existed until recently ━ not to mention caged torture isn’t high up in Norway’s realm of history.

The historian snickers, “Yeah.”

“Hm,” the hum is dull, mindless. “Okay, help me move this.”

Without receiving a real answer, Becky moves over to the cave-in’s left side. She bends her knees and slips her fingers beneath one of the deeper, soot-covered boards, hoping to either dismantle the wall of material or simply squeeze beneath. Charlotte accepts the request and opposes her partner’s position, giving her a nod before they begin to use their joint strength to wiggle the plank free.

However, within a second or two of the bare minimum movement, a shaking occurs in front of them. The blonde’s eyes widen at the feeling, immediately stopping and pulling Becky away from the area as a large piece of rubble from over the tunnel collapses. Shattering the wood beneath, and slamming into the ground where they previously stood.

Smoke fills the air, Becky waving her hand in front of her face as she coughs on it. She feels Charlotte’s hands slip away from her waist, Becky turning to the other woman and patting her on the butt before walking away. Charlotte chuckles, knowing it’s a silent form of gratitude for the save.

The Irish woman walks further into the open space, putting her hands on her hips and tilting her chin upwards. They both study the hole in the ceiling, not knowing where it leads but being sure it’s their only way forward. It has to lead _somewhere,_ really. Still, even with the flashlight’s beam on the darkness above, she can’t make out anything aside from the ceiling of it. Not even how wide the space is, or if it’s a simple crawl-through. If it’s another dead-end, also.

Becky chews her inner cheek, then sighs.

“Guess we’re going up.”

Her flashlight beam is still fixated on the ceiling’s opening. Ready to invite them into the next sequence of cave.

Unfortunately, that beam begins to flicker. Out of Becky’s peripherals, she sees the flashlight’s dying ray. She hears a minute buzzing noise, as well. A sinister sign that they’re bound to be left behind in darkness. Her eyes widen, her lip trembles in mild terror. Also an acute sense of tantrum, like a child anticipating the inevitable, no matter how much they protest.

“Oh, please, no,” the redhead all but whines, smacking the object repeatedly before it fully dies. _“God_ damn it,” Charlotte hears without seeing Becky’s face, but she’s sure the hunter closed her eyes in irritation.

Now, they’re in the dark. Actually, it’s darker than dark. They’re underground, without a light source, with cave walls surrounding them, and no inkling of where to venture next. On Becky’s side of things, she doesn't even have a sense of where Charlotte is. She hadn’t been facing the blonde when their flashlight began to flicker, and now she’s not sure if she’s even relatively close. So, her feet stay in place. Too nervous to move. Too nervous to maybe stumble over a stray piece of rock before possibly even impaling herself on a wall. She huffs, shoulders slouching.

Though, feet away, the historian doesn’t seem to share the same fear.

“Hold on,” despite having no line of sight, the blonde wanders cautiously. “I saw a torch up here before the flashlight went out. I’m going to need a boost, though.”

Listening to her partner’s shuffling, Becky moves closer with her arms out in front of her, mumbling a responding “Sure.”

The ribbed fabric of Charlotte’s tank-top is felt within the next second. Her fingertips brush against it, feeling her way to the blonde while her partner snickers at the motion. She can practically feel the ulterior motives, truly.

Finally, Becky gets a solid grasp on her waist. The redhead’s back then presses to the room’s middle pillar on the opposite side of the ceiling’s hole. Crouching down, she begins to adjust her position so she can make a joint cradle for Charlotte’s foot. A tactic that’ll prop the woman upwards enough to grab the torch. The Irish woman grunts as she readies herself, Charlotte meanwhile feeling her way to use Becky’s makeshift handhold ━ albeit less gracefully than when the treasure hunter did it.

“Okay,” Becky huffs, “just let me— _ow,_ that’s my _forehead.”_

“Sorry,” she pauses, suppressing a laugh. “Got it,” her feet thump down onto the ground, spilling pieces of rubble nearby. “Alright, let’s see…”

“Do you have anything to light it?” Becky senses the other woman crouching in front of her, lingering in place as she sets the torch on the ground. “My matches are still soaked.”

“We got good ole fashioned rocks,” the historian shares, a bit cheekily, seconds before hitting two of them together and creating a single spark that flickers near the ground. “Come on,” she coaxes the multiple shimmers of light. “Come on, come on…”

“Maybe I should—”

The Irish woman is interrupted by the room lighting up. Glowing orange, pulsing against the walls with a vibrant, large flame upon the torch near their feet. Becky can’t help but leave her mouth agape as her chin lifts to admire the color, murmuring an amazed “Ooh,” as if she’s a child at a fireworks show.

What she doesn’t notice, however, comes when Charlotte eases herself back upwards so they’re eye level. Once Becky refocuses on the other woman, she sees that Charlotte’s face is mere inches away from hers. An orange glow creating shadows against their profiles with the torch held next to their bodies.

As brown eyes focus on a warm, golden tint that disrupts the normal, blue-green gaze staring back at her, Becky’s mouth shuts. Closes tightly, with her teeth quietly clacking together at the rapid motion. She swallows hard at the proximity of their faces. How their noses are inches apart ━ _if_ that. How she can practically feel Charlotte’s breath against her, though the historian quirks an eyebrow via heavy intention. Intention that speaks volumes of taunts and wishes to bat the other woman back and forth.

“You weren’t doubting me, were you?” the taller woman smirks at her partner’s obvious, flustered persona, their closeness being intoxicating for the both of them.

“You’re surprisingly handy,” Becky chooses to say, tongue-tied ━ not that her chosen words are much less full of innuendos.

“Mm,” Charlotte hums, eyeing her up and down before ultimately turning away.

An elongated breath is exhaled by the redhead. A sigh of relief, in a way, while Charlotte bends down to grab a smaller torch that’s been tucked into the side of the pillar. An item they hadn’t seen before their flashlight mishap, quite frankly. Quickly, the flame is shared between both torches until the second piece of wood is equally as ignited. Charlotte cautiously nurtures both light sources until they’re undoubtedly burning without struggle. As she sees they’re burning accordingly, one is bestowed upon Becky. It warrants an appraising hum.

Easily, Charlotte helps her partner up into the ceiling’s entrance. It’s not a far jump to it, no, however a boost is needed. A repayment for when Becky helped her acquire the torch, moments ago. She pushes the redhead into it, borderline launching her upwards until she hears her gain the necessary traction to kick forward.

Crawling army-style further into the new tunnel, Becky clamors into the space with her torch before leaving it nearby. Far away enough to not get in their way, but close enough to create a halo of light within the close vicinity.

“Okay, love, give me your hand,” it’s absentminded and natural ━ something she’s said endless times beforehand ━ but Charlotte still smiles warmly at the term of endearment.

The historian does as told, grasping onto Becky’s hand and using their collective effort to rejoin her partner within the ceiling’s cavity. Getting situated within the new space, they’re able to acquire a better view of it. Foremost noticing that it’s roomier than initially expected, from below. Actually, it’s approximately the same width as the path they tread to reach Avery’s first contraption. Only, this time, the ceiling is a foot or so lower. Not short enough to cause them to duck, but noticeably more compact.

They begin to walk next to each other once they’ve gathered their bearings. Closely, like earlier, with their forearms brushing past one another.

As they make their way further along the new path, they continue to note its aspects. The visually similar facets to the tunnels below. Like it’s merely a second level with thicker roots embedded in the walls, also leading other places. Maybe even the same places, if they so find in due time. Resulting from its mirrored appearance to the area below, Becky supposes that Avery needed to come up with a backup labyrinth in case the mountain ever became brittle due to the massive construction both above and below. For once, Becky thinks she should thank Avery and his shenanigans. Additionally, she should praise him for the torches he had set upon the walls. This way, they can actually see. The redhead side-eyes the dead flashlight within her backpack, having to shake her head.

When she refocuses, her attention turns back to the torches in their hands. The orange glow engulfing their bodies, keeping them toasty. She notes the blonde next to her, features prominent with the flame’s vibrancy. There’s a small hum emanating from her throat, as well. The same, mindless tune that she’d hummed while the Irish woman sipped water from a stream. The same tune that’s proven to calm Becky’s nerves, in all honesty. Here is no different.

Becky smiles at the sentimentality, then nibbles her lower lip in attempts to hide it. It doesn’t work, in the end. Then again, why bother trying? She’s happy to be happy.

“This is… sort of romantic,” her words are tip-toeing but also decisive. “Warm lighting, aging stone, just the two of us.”

It’s punctuated by an explosion in the distance, the tunnels quaking before calming again.

“And explosives,” Charlotte turns to her, voice pointed.

“Just the sound of my loving heart bursting,” she pretends to be passive about it, and the historian gives her a look. “What? It was a compliment to you.”

“Was it?” a chuckle passes her lips, mildly amused by her partner’s antics.

Yards away, within the torches’ light, appears a hole in the floor. A downwards drop into the tunnels from where they emerged, minutes prior. Another re-route, that is, having their detour come to an end so they’re back on track. In a way, it’s relieving. But, on the other hand, it reminds them that they could be encountering Avery’s infamous traps again. The likelihood being stronger on the main course than if they were to stay above, in this tunnel.

Unfortunately, there’s no way around it. Because, looking past the hole in the floor, it’s completely caved in. Actually, Becky isn’t sure if it ever went further past this collapsed piece of stone into the lower chamber. For all they know, it could’ve been a simple, set detour instead of something accidental or collapsed. It looks too polished, too cemented together to be a simple mistake.

She sighs.

“Back on track,” the redhead speaks flatly before moving closer to the drop.

“You sound annoyed by it.”

“If we’re on the set track, we’ll likely run into more of those little dynamite mazes from before,” Becky tilts her head to the side, Charlotte raising her eyebrows and sealing her lips into a straight line.

“Good point.”

Their boots shuffle closer to the drop. As Becky tries to peek further into the space, small pieces of gravel trip into the hole and drop to the ground where they hear them bounce like marbles. Against her enjoyment, she can’t see much. Though, it’s enough to notice that there’s nothing suspicious lying beneath where they’ll land. No contraptions, no wooden plates, no triggers. Still, she hopes nothing is nearby. Nothing lying in wait for them. Judging by the close-sounding explosives, they’re approaching Lacey and her men. On the optimistic side of things, that means they’re closer to Sasha and Bayley. Closer to rescuing their friends. On their tails, waiting to pounce and rescue those they’ve lost so they can get the hell off this island.

The Irish woman nods to herself in decision, peering back at her partner and getting the green light.

Carefully, Becky lowers herself backwards into the lower level. A simple easing down into the gap until she drops herself onto the floor. On contact, she walks away from the ceiling’s mouth. It’s not due to making space for Charlotte, however. Not like usual. This time, it’s in wonderance and a sense of alert. A sense of apprehension about what they’ve fallen into. Furthermore, her eyes are frozen open, looking at her surroundings.

Charlotte doesn’t detect the woman’s quiet dismay until she’s dropped alongside her partner, but, then, her reaction is instantly as baffled and mouth-opening.

Overall, it’s not a big room within the tunnels. It’s not a giant chamber, nor is it a puzzle. At first glance, it’s a simple, compact section of rock cleared out. However, what gets their attention is the decor of it. “Decor” being used lightly.

From the ceiling hang multiple rope-bags of bones, dangling from the cave’s roof like piñatas. Now glowing within the light of their torches, with a whole skeleton sat against a wall between two, splitting tunnels. A fork in the labyrinth set in front of them, leading them left or right. The skeleton that lies between the pair of options is blemished with a forceful gash in his skull, jaw hanging by one side, and there’s a wooden sign in his lap. Even so, despite his shoddy appearance, Becky and Charlotte continuously spin in place in attention to the hanging objects. Careful of not walking, as they may bump their heads on the multiple, drooping bags of bones. They simultaneously keep their flames lowered, not wishing to light the rope on fire as they walk by.

Internally, the historian muses that maybe Becky was onto something when she mentioned these were Halloween decorations. Maybe that’s what they should genuinely tell themselves. It’s far less gruesome, that way.

“Well, it’s not a trap, but…” the Irish woman gingerly pokes one of the ropes, making a face when the bag begins to sway with bones rustling inside.

“I’ve run out of things to say at this point,” her partner’s voice is hollow, shaking her head in dumbfoundedness.

Although she doesn’t have the voice to verbally agree, Becky gives the remark a solemn nod. Then, with a deep breath, she ducks her head while walking over to the sign on top of the skeleton’s lap. Instantly, her eyes squint at the frantic nature of the carved letters. Her fingers brush against them, too. Their crevices, their sharpness and deepness. So-obviously done with a knife, and in a hurry. Through a wave of anger, maybe. Ultimately, in light of its deranged nature, she’s able to make out the inscription:

 _“‘The hands that stole from me,’”_ she reads aloud, Charlotte listening to the dread in her tone ━ something she feels deeply, as well.

“I don’t like this place.”

Nodding her head again, Becky clears her throat and gestures to the right tunnel. A weak display, but enough for her partner to get the hint.

“Me neither,” the admission is sighed out as Charlotte follows her from the room, heading down the path without a second thought. “Just another reason to keep going, hm?”

“Good idea.”

  


 

A wad of footsteps scuff against the dusty and pebbly floor. Kicking gravel with every movement between the dozens of soldiers, Lacey, Rhea, herself, and Bayley. Larger pieces of rocks are occasionally knocked upon. Sent flying into the walls around them, as well, whenever someone forgets to pay attention.

Thinking back, the irritating noises have earned a round or two of snapping from the blonde woman walking ahead of them. A fierce reaction, bitten back at two of the soldiers who figured this is a fun venture. Like it’s a vacation of some kind, or doesn’t hold massive implications.

For once, the mercenary would be inclined to agree with Lacey; this is no time for fun and games, nor is it the time for dawdling. Dare she think these tunnels could end with their plausible demise, should they not be careful enough, or should they not find a way to escape them.

Then again, despite her touchy attitude, Lacey hasn’t held issue with working around Avery’s caverns. In fact, she’s hardly blinked an eye at the notion of needing to cave in the tunnels behind them. A precaution taken against Becky’s presumable efforts, or so Lacey proclaimed. Each time the blonde directs her men to stunt the progress of _anyone_ who wishes to follow them, Sasha’s anxiety heightens a bit more. So does Bayley’s. And, judging by Rhea’s clawed excuse in attempt to get Lacey to reconsider her volatile tactics, she’s just as nervous while wandering through Avery’s labyrinth.

 _“What if we need to go back that way?”_ Rhea’s voice had been scratchy when she suggested it, sounding like she’s also a captive of her boss’ bad nature.

The valid point came after Lacey had requested that one of the assailants collapse the tunnel’s entrance behind the group. The entrance that came following Avery’s first test: a winding maze of pressure pads with dynamite strapped to the bottom. They had lost a man, minutes before that, when he fell backwards from a wooden tile. The blonde woman hardly cared, taking a moment to look at his fate with the tut of her tongue. Then, they moved on. Rhea watched the fallen perpetrator with a tinge more seriousness, a shorter wave of mourning with her eyes unblinking and fixated on the dribbling blood from the corner of his mouth. Sasha and Bayley studied her, in the meantime, though the mercenary’s focus was primarily on her partner’s mindset. All Sasha could do is hope that this doesn’t tarnish the brunette’s once-keen idea of how the world operates.

In the end, Rhea never received an answer to her question. The tunnel was collapsed, rubble spewing out and trickling down its rocky wall as they stood back and watched through the glow of the soldiers’ multiple glowsticks. After that, they were trapped in the maze’s newest branch with nowhere to go but forward.

Until, in due time, that branch welcomed its own choice of paths: left or right. Of course, despite the group’s debating on where to go, Lacey made the choice out of pure annoyance with the endless travels. A frustrated outcome against Rhea’s suggestion of heading right, leading them to go left. And, almost in an action to assert dominance over her general, once they were a good fifty yards into their fresh path, the blonde woman ordered her soldiers to collapse the tunnel’s mouth again.

 _“What if this leads nowhere? There was a fork for a reason,”_ Rhea argued, and Sasha could tell that tension was boiling over between the two.

 _“If it doesn’t lead anywhere, we’ll just create a new passage,”_ Lacey bit back.

Here, as they enter a larger cavern with four, separate branches to walk down, it appears as though Lacey isn’t as confident as she was, minutes ago. Sasha and Bayley witness her footsteps slowing down until they halt, Rhea wandering ahead with tightened shoulders and, from what they can see, an even more tightened jaw. The soldiers come to a standstill, as well, which means so does the mercenary and her partner.

Sasha’s gaze observes the room, looking at the stalactites dripping from the ceiling in some of its corners. Creating a menacing aura, as the glowsticks’ luminescence cascades shadows of teeth onto the brown walls. The branches of tunnel, themselves, don’t look any more comforting. They’re entirely darkened, full of shadows, and echo with sounds of pebbles being kicked whenever a soldier moves in place.

In total, they have absolutely no clue where to go next, and Sasha worries at her split, lower lip as she thinks of possibly being held hostage below ground for longer than another hour. She’s not sure how her own sanity would hold up, and she can almost feel Bayley’s gaze on her. Admittedly, the mercenary’s poker face isn’t as good as it used to be.

Suddenly, through the quiet, Lacey offers the circumstances a dark chuckle. A scoff, more like, that causes her hands to ball into fists by her sides. The object of her furiousness standing in front of her. Being in the form of her general: Rhea.

“For Christ’s sake,” she all but groans out. “Does this godforsaken tunnel of yours even lead anywhere?”

Rhea freezes where she stands, initially facing away. Peering over her shoulder, she catches Lacey fuming through the glowsticks’ faint light. A livid sheen in her eyes, gaze narrowed and jaw shifted. Blaming her, quite obviously. Her chin is raised, as well. A portrayal intended to size Rhea up, while multiple soldiers line the entrance to the clearing. Their two hostages stand there, lingering in front of four men, being unarmed and observing the encounter with curious eyes.

“My━ _my_ tunnel?” Rhea stammers with enthusiasm, wide-eyed and borderline entertained with an amused grin that drops entirely within the next second. _“I_ suggested we go right,” she approaches the blonde, pointing at the direction, “but _you_ decided that meant we should go left. _Then,_ you chose to collapse the entrance behind us against _my_ judgement.”

“It was _your_ bright idea to follow Avery’s trail, General. ‘Cleaner tactic,’ you said.”

“But whose hunt is this?” she fights back, standing her ground. “We’re on this whole shit-fest of an island because of you.”

Again, her boss’ jaw tightens. They’re stood an inch apart, the atmosphere of the room teetering. Sasha almost wants to slide an inch closer to Bayley, just in case something blows up right before their eyes. Just in case gunfire erupts, or they find an opening to run down one of the tunnels. Her hand even twitches at her side, but not enough to get the soldiers’ attention. Instead, the mercenary swallows hard and pays attention to the altercation.

Then, calmness takes over. A synthetic, farse version of it, anyway. Because, after five seconds of a severe stare-down, Lacey’s chin lowers. Her shoulders ease downward, and her posture relaxes. But, on the other hand, the menacing glint in her eye doesn’t lessen. Her features simply look twistedly bothered. Deranged, in a way. _Spiteful,_ almost. Like her next instruction is out of pettiness, and not in a desired outcome.

While staring directly into Rhea’s eyes, Lacey moves her hand and snaps at the nearest soldier. A well-armed soldier with multiple grenades strapped to his belt, more specifically.

“Blow it up.”

“What?” Rhea and Sasha simultaneously stress, both wide-eyed and in disbelief.

Their collective surprise is ignored, though shared by a few of her other men. Walking away, Lacey continues speaking to the soldier who gives her a single, compliant nod, moving over toward the wall.

“Set a grenade at its base. Blow through to the outside, whether it takes one or two pins,” the instruction is smooth and mindless, gesturing with her finger to the thick, stone wall. “We’ll take cover behind those rocks in the corner,” her hand waves backwards to them, “then we’ll wind around the mountain’s outside. I’m done with these tunnels.”

“You really are insane,” the mercenary rasps, her tone low but spoken in sudden realization. “Blowing through an outer wall with that much force could make this entire labyrinth collapse. You could kill us all.”

At her seriousness, Lacey stares without movement. Without rebuttal, or even a snide laugh like Sasha imagined. It’s a solid, seven seconds before the blonde puts her hands on her hips. Nodding while facing the wall, too, with her eyes narrowing in a faux suspicion. In faux pretend that she’s bound to listen, or change her mind. Even Rhea waits for her to realize that it’s a stupid idea, though she doesn’t intervene.

“You know, you’re right.”

Sasha breathes through her nostrils, exhaling heavily. She knows that isn’t it. She knows there’s more to Lacey’s attitude, and what she’s going to proceed to say. Bayley shifts as close to the mercenary as she can, especially when she sees Lacey slip a grenade out from the soldier’s belt.

With slow movements, she approaches the two of them. Explosive in hand, eventually presented to Sasha. The mercenary’s eyes don’t stray from Lacey’s, realistically. She won’t give the blonde the time of day. A silent battle of getting the upper hand on one another. Bayley holds her breath while watching.

 _“You’re_ going to do it,” Lacey instructs, a sinister smile curving her mouth.

Like previously, Sasha doesn’t take the item. She doesn’t even look at it. Honestly, she doesn’t want to feel the cool material against her palm. The improbability of the object and its outcomes. Most of all, she doesn’t want Bayley to be subjected to that. Something tells Sasha that Lacey is aware of her highest stake, judging by the way her grin turns into a full-blown smirk. Judging by the way her attention turns to the brunette, as well, before the mercenary takes a step forward in front of Bayley. A blockade against Lacey’s wandering, evil eyes.

Sasha glares with the blonde lifting her chin in entertainment. Her jaw also hardens as the soldiers point their guns at her, ready to shoot. A precaution in case she tries anything when the two are so close, so angry at one another.

“It won’t change anything, no matter who does it,” Bayley’s voice is heard from behind Sasha’s shoulder, defending them against Lacey and trying to move in front of her partner.

The purple-haired woman peers over her shoulder when she feels Bayley brush against her back. A minute point of contact that makes her posture deflate, just a little. Likewise, Lacey’s gaze shifts to the navigator who’s been primarily silent for the extent of their travels. Her smile returns, as if she’s the face of innocence no matter what they all sincerely know.

“It’ll have the same outcome, sure,” coolly, she slinks her arm around Sasha’s shoulders, the woman grimacing while knowing not to make and sudden movements, “but _this one_ will get to spend eternity in purgatory remembering the fact that she’s responsible for killing not only us and herself, but you, too.”

Using her words as a distraction, the grenade is placed within Sasha’s palm. On contact, her fingers delicately wrap around it, but not by much. Not when her eyes raise to her partner’s, lips parted and pained. The brunette frowns with shimmering eyes when she sees the saddened acknowledgement within the woman’s eyes. Only one example of her secondhand pain for Sasha.

Truly, she knows the mercenary has no desire to do this. She knows that, if they had taken a chance earlier to run away from their captors, even at the risk of being shot down, they wouldn’t have to deal with this type of anxiety. Sasha wouldn’t have to expose Bayley to something so formidable, so daunting and nerve-wracking, either.

Truth be told, the brunette can’t help but think that part of her partner’s pain is her fault. If she hadn’t asked Sasha to go through with whatever Lacey asked of her, they wouldn’t be in this specific predicament. This mind-numbing choice, or test of mentality. She can sense the emotional strain that’s put on her resolve with the grenade grasped in her fingers. Especially judging by the way Sasha’s eyes water when they meet hers, a second time. A heartbroken look in her eyes. Speaking volumes, with her lips remaining parted.

Bayley can’t let Sasha continue thinking that this is her own doing. She can’t let her believe that she’s upset over something they’re being _forced_ to do. So, in true, optimistic fashion, Bayley gives her a sad smile. A watery one, at that. It’s accompanied by an approving nod, a wave of encouragement, forcing her tears back behind her eyes. She even mouths a small “It’ll be okay,” that Sasha’s lower lip quivers at.

She bites down on it, bowing her head. A harsh sniffle is heard, then the woman raises her eyes to Lacey.

“Fine,” the whisper is immediate, not giving the blonde a true look as she turns away.

“That’s a good little mercenary.”

At the comment, Sasha has to remind herself not to snap. Not to pull the clip and toss it into Lacey’s men like a bowling ball against pins before grabbing Bayley and sprinting away. But she remembers the promise she made to her partner. The promise she made to the woman nearby, smiling at her while being rather harshly ushered away by some of the soldiers. Ready to take refuge behind a bed of fallen rocks, like a wall that’ll give them a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the blast. Sasha looks back at Bayley, eyes fragile as she watches the brunette give her another nod. A constant reminder that it’s okay.

She’ll be okay. _They’ll_ be okay.

Instantly, Sasha knows what she has to do. She has to listen to Lacey, and do what she’s told. So, giving them one last glance, standing in front of the wall with the grenade clutched in her palm, she makes sure everyone is secure behind the rock wall. Once the pin is pulled, the explosive is placed, then she’ll join them in order to brave the inevitable destruction.

With a breath, she faces the wall and puts on a steely facade.

  


 

They wander into another, open room within the next stretch of footsteps. In this case, there aren’t any bags of bones hanging from the ceiling. A reassuring sight, in all honesty. However, what isn’t as reassuring are the skeletons slumped against the wall. Sat within cages on the floor, additionally ━ A.K.A. those infamous cages hung from wooden structures outside New Devon, first welcoming them to the city.

Becky pauses in front of a pair of them, pointing and commenting, “More gibbets,” while turning back to look at Charlotte until they’re standing hip to hip.

 _“Gibbets,”_ Charlotte corrects through her chuckling at her partner’s attempt.

“What?”

“They’re ‘gibbets,’ like, with the ‘j’ sound.”

The redhead frowns, “That’s what I said.”

“No,” the historian smiles heavily, cutely, tilting her head to the side, “you used a hard ‘g.’”

There’s a pause. A pause of thinking, and backtracking. Charlotte watches the way brown eyes narrow in curiosity. As if she’s rummaging through her mind and replaying this whole scenario, like she’d restarted a video-game scene. There’s a specific crease in her brow, as well, as she lifts her chin to look at the cages once more. It’s a confused look that the blonde smirks at, seeing how vacant the other woman’s expression is. How conflicted, and how deciphering.

“Wait, what are you saying?” the hunter turns to her again, as if she’d totally forgotten the conversation.

She inhales deeply, readying herself to explain another time.

“I said━”

Nearby, there’s a massive explosion. One that causes all other blasts to pale in comparison. It’s closer to them, too, their assumption based on the fact that stones fall from the ceiling.

Instinctually, both women cover their heads and duck. They crouch down as the walls and floor shake, dusty rock flaking dirt downwards from all sides. Luckily, the room is compact enough to act as its own archway. A positive aspect, reassuring Becky that the room is more upright than the tunnels, in case the blast were to cause another batch of cave-ins.

The shock lasts for thirty seconds as Charlotte grabs onto Becky’s forearm. While crouched, they allow everything to settle. They allow the floor to stop shaking, the walls to stop crumbling, and the ceiling to stop sounding like it’s bound to give out. When the silence returns, they push themselves back upright.

“They’re going to collapse this entire maze on us,” the historian looks toward the ceiling, mouth agape and features irritated as she shakes her head.

“Better get moving, then,” her partner begins to walk away, nodding toward the adjacent tunnel leading them out of the room. “Just be ready for a fight. That sounded close.”

“I’m always ready for a fight, nowadays.”

Becky hesitates, eyebrows furrowing.

“Is that in reference to me?”

“What? No,” Charlotte snorts, snickering at the other woman’s fast-paced reaction. “Paranoid much?”

A mocking expression is given, poking fun at her partner before mumbling, “And no one likes a know-it-all,” in response to their prior conversation.

“What was that?” it’s lecturing, surprised Becky would dare to be so bold while walking next to her, but the redhead smirks in her direction.

“Who’s paranoid now?”

It earns a groan, then the muttered rebuttal of “Try-hard.”

Becky presses her tongue to her inner cheek. In an attempt to win their banter once and for all, she forcibly bumps Charlotte’s shoulder before pretending she didn’t do anything as the blonde stumbles away. The historian rolls her eyes once her entertainment simmers, both women following the curve of the cave wall.

  


 

A round of coughing is heard within a cloud of smoke. A thick puff of dust and debris spreading inwards and outwards. Filtering back into the cave, and out into the streaming light of fresh air and island breeze.

Sasha inhaled most of the chalky substance as it shot away from the wall. More than anyone else, she was subjected to the most force. The most remnants of rock shooting this way and that with the explosion. In fact, she was hardly crouched beside her partner when the blast erupted. It’s not that it was mistimed, however touchy. The wall was unexpectedly dense, too.

Upon her skin is a light brown, chalky substance. Everyone has pieces of rubble in their hair or upon their skull-caps and helmets, sitting atop their shoulders and forearms until they move.

Once the final, few pebbles fall down from the fresh opening’s underside, everyone eases themselves upward to see through the cleared wall. Lacey, in particular, gets to her feet before anyone. Then, the soldiers follow suit by hastily matching their boss’ motions. Making sure to have her back, no matter what. As the mercenary brushes her hands through purple strands, picking small rocks out and flicking them to the ground, she doesn’t have much leisure time before she’s yanked upward by her bicep. A harsh grip on her skin, pulling her to her feet alongside Bayley.

Within seconds, a gun’s barrel is pressed against their spines. A particular, metallic sensation that all but singes their clothing as they’re guided forward. As they’re guided to their new path, that is. Moving closer, a cliff-like slab of rock comes into view before anything else. A smooth cliffside that’s enough room for everyone to stand on, ferns and leafy plants lining the area as if they’re on a stagnant portion of the mountain’s sloping side.

Accompanying the new surroundings is a waft of fresh air that hits her skin. Something that cools it instantly, reminding them of how sweaty they’ve become from the smoggy, moist caves. Despite the labyrinth's dryness, everything became muggy with their hot breaths and body heat. The existence of dozens of men and women within the same, compact area. Sasha could shudder at the rememberance, but she instead opts to breathe in a deep breath of the cool breeze. A subtle, outdoorsy scent comes along with it. Hell, she could almost smile at the aroma.

Only steps behind her, Bayley is gradually exposed to the same thing. The light stings her eyes, at first, and she’s unable to focus on anything other than the cliffside beneath her feet, then on Sasha who stands nearby. The mercenary’s existence, alone, brings her newfound comfort. A comfort that invites her to take in the rest of the scenery, similar to each member of Lacey’s militia.

Little by little, they proceed with cautious steps. They wander forward, with the slowest of movements, all until everyone is standing upon the grass-patched, stone ledge that overlooks a magnificent sight. A solemn one, at the same time. One that tells a bounty of stories, both good-natured and bad. So they assume, that is.

In front of them, approximately fifty feet atop the winding shore of the mountain’s inlet, are various, wrecked ships. Giant pirate ships, wooden and majestic. Having tall masts toppled over, red flags that are tattered yet still swaying with the breeze, holes blown into some of the captain’s quarters and topside cabins. Each full-length ship spanning up to one-hundred feet from bow to stern. Some being taller than that, with their masts being intimidating. One ship’s crow’s nest still stands far up into the air, as well, two holes blown through its underside but otherwise existing miraculously.

Mouth agape, Sasha and Bayley stand there in the same type of awe. Rhea does, as well, although a milder form of it. Lacey’s smirk is cunning as ever, being less mindful of the history and more so at what these ships meant to the colony. More specifically: who they belonged to. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that these astonishing ships belonged to someone of high honor. Likely, they belonged to the founders of Libertalia, or Avery’s men. Assumably, their crashed story lies within being pushed onto the shore by the current. Washed up along the dark sand as the water drew out, over time, leaving them marooned. Their owners long forgotten, before they could do anything about their vessels.

The brunette exhales through her nostrils, closing her mouth. It’s a motion that reminds her of reality, and brings her back to the situation at hand. How they’re held captive by soldiers who, currently, are paying perhaps an ounce of attention to them. Not enough to hold them down, really. Even the rifle’s barrel has alleviated from her back, and there’s not a single body behind her. Using her peripherals, she sees the man who’s usually kept her in line standing off to her left side. Absentmindedly so, eyes wandering the ships beyond their reach. To her right, Sasha stands freely in a mirrored way. Their perpetrators thoughtlessly taking in the view with Lacey and Rhea, close to the mercenary’s right hip yet far away, at the same time. Too far to catch her and Sasha if they were to drop down the ledge, at least.

She doesn’t make her discovery known. Instead, she wears a straight line for a mouth. Casually, her body leans forward a creak in order to see what’s below them. Upon sight, she has to resist smiling. Below them is another ledge. Smaller than the current, but enough to hold onto before dropping down onto the first ship that lies in the sand. Enough to cushion them from falling fifty feet downwards, and enough to give them time in order to sprint across the deck before taking refuge within the captain’s quarters.

Inevitably, it’s a risk. It’s _always_ a risk. But, now, she sees a solid opening.

Subtly, the brunette pretends to unnoticeably brush Sasha’s shoulder. It breaks her partner from the captivated trance of the shipyard, attentive eyes flickering to Bayley. Still, the navigator stares forward with a burning gaze against her temple, inconspicuously mouthing one word:

“Now.”

It’s not immediate enough to be taken in the moment. It hides a question, actually, or a suggestion. Because of that, Sasha’s eyes wander. She side-eyes the soldier standing next to her. The lone man keeping her in place, nimbly so. Also the same man who has a line of grenades among his belt, and a military rifle in his hand. The idea that comes to mind stiffens her posture, but she pretends it’s nothing. To everyone but herself and her partner, realistically.

In response to Bayley, her chin raises slightly, staring ahead at the shipyard before showing the woman a single nod that’s hardly a nod at all. At the same time, her finger twitches against the back of Bayley’s hand, getting the brunette’s gaze to float down to where she’s brushed. Three fingers are shown. A count of three being offered, and ultimately decided on. When the navigator looks at Sasha again, the count is started.

A brief inhale is taken, Sasha psyching herself up to the task. On mental instruction, her blood begins to flow faster. Her body coils up, too, and her adrenaline sounds like a hammer between her ears. Outwardly, her demeanor stiffens as she raises her chin.

A nod is shown.

Then another, and a third.

The plan is put into motion.

Before anyone can comprehend what’s happening, the mercenary moves swiftly. In a single motion, she turns around and pulls the pin of a grenade upon the man’s belt. As his eyes widen in panic, Sasha seizes the moment to snatch his equipped, automatic rifle. Behind her, Bayley does the same in taking her soldier’s gun, though her distraction more so comes in the form of punching him in the nose.

Everything explodes from here on out. With a sharp “What the━” coming from one of the nearby soldiers, multiple rounds are shot in Sasha’s direction before she jumps from the ledge with Bayley ahead of her. Not before a bullet grazes the mercenary’s bicep, however, leaving blood to trail down her arm rapidly.

Fortunately for her pain threshold, it’s heightened with her adrenaline’s rush, and they’re able to slink down the mountainside with ease.

Two more bullets are shot down in their direction as they guard their heads and move as fast as they can, all before they hear Lacey’s shout of “Get down!”

By that time, they’re already dropping from the second ledge down to the ship’s surface with a thud.

“Run into the cabin!” Sasha instructs while keeping her bloody arm tucked close to her torso, her partner already ahead of her.

They otherwise remain covering their heads when the explosion shoots off, the man’s belt of grenades being triggered, as well. As a result, three soldiers are thrown from the cliffside and down to the ground, lifelessly hitting the shore with soft thuds and dusty sand covering them. Rubble tumbles down the cliffside and onto the inlet where it takes home. Behind where Sasha and Bayley sprint to safety, smaller rocks pepper against the wooden planks of the ship. Ironically, it’s a comforting sound.

The comfort doesn’t last forever, on the other hand. Quite frankly, they hardly reach the captain’s quarters when gunfire erupts against the wall of it.

With a collective breath, they push their shoulders against the wooden interior and make sure to relax themselves rather minutely. Enough to gather their minds, at least. As long as they’re out of the fray, they should recuperate until taking it, head-on. There’s no doubt that Lacey won’t stop before she rounds them up once more. And, then, they doubt she’ll be courteous enough to give them a second chance.

“Sash, your arm…”

For the first time, the mercenary gets a glimpse of the wound. A gushing slash against her bicep, allowing a warm, red liquid to follow the curve of her arm and onto her tank-top while she keeps it close to her body. She has to refrain from placing her palm over it, as if to hide the cut. Instead, her head absentmindedly shakes at the statement. The sound of Bayley’s devastated voice, more specifically. It makes her dizzy from the massive blood-loss, stopping the motion and crinkling her nose at the metallic scent.

“I’m fine,” the reply is quick ━ a little too quick ━ and she instantly regrets it. “Just… we have to move, okay?”

No response. The silence is deafening, she thinks. Bayley doesn’t appear sad, no, but Sasha can tell that it’s not what she wanted to hear. She closes her eyes, leaning her forehead against the wall. Much to her surprise, a gentle hand reaches for hers. Holding onto it, and not letting go as gunfire peppers the wall’s other side.

  


 

Back on the upper ledge, Lacey and Rhea come out of hiding. Begrudgingly so, at that. On Rhea’s part, at least. Because, next to her, Lacey is merely irate about the transpiring events, clearly not caring about her fallen men. Clearly not caring about Rhea’s dismay, either, as she attempts to brush the blood from her arms with rapid motions.

 _“You,”_ Lacey approaches her. “This is your problem now,” she all but hisses, poking a finger into Rhea’s chest. “You’ve sacrificed enough of my time. Now, handle it,” a rifle is picked from the ground and shoved into the other woman’s arms, afterwards turning to one of the shaken men. “And you, with me. We’re getting that treasure.”

As her boss walks away, Rhea huffs. Her tongue moves to bite back at the blonde, but she knows it would be a lost cause. Deciding against it, she angrily assumes position with the weapon. Looking ahead at her targets who are now spotted ascending to the upper deck of the captain’s quarters.

  


 

The mercenary grits her teeth as she climbs the ladder, ignoring the stinging sensation shooting up through her arm. She can feel Bayley’s eyes on her. Watching her every move, depending on Sasha to make it through. Again, she grits her teeth while reaching the top portion of the deck. Automatically, she turns around to pull Bayley up with her, though the brunette brushes off the assistance. For a moment, Sasha thinks her partner is angry. That she’s pissed at the wound. Especially given in the way she glares at the slice in her skin, letting red liquid drip freely down her muscle.

Her nervousness is alleviated, however, when Bayley reaches into one of her pockets and pulls out a rag.

“Here,” the item is held in her hand, gingerly moving closer to the wound.

Immediately, as a measly amount of pressure is applied, more blood seeps out. Its stinging scent filling the surrounding air as Bayley feels her mouth water with nausea. She can only imagine what Sasha feels, remembering her leg’s pain from the wreckage. Here, whenever she even relatively moves the mercenary’s skin, the slice shifts and releases another wave of blood. Dripping down her arm and blending with the glistening sweat against her skin. It doesn’t look good, but she knows Sasha is putting on a brave face. She knows even more so that she needs to apply pressure to it by wrapping the makeshift bandage around her bicep, stat.

Quickly and cautiously, Bayley ignores the blood gathering along her own skin as she works on displaying a shoddy job of first-aid on the woman whose eyes slam shut. Her teeth pierce together, as well. Chin raising to the ceiling, her throat shifts with pain. Bayley winces at her appearance, not wishing to pain Sasha any more than she’s already endured.

For once, however, the mercenary doesn’t stray from letting her discontent be heard. It’s when Bayley has to tie the rag tighter around her arm that the fabric rubs in the wrong spot.

“Ow, _fuck,”_ it’s just short of a growl with her neck’s veins becoming more prominent, hitting her head backwards against the wooden boards.

At the sound, the brunette hesitates. After, she proceeds to secure the piece of cloth, no matter what. She has to.

“I know, I’m sorry, just…” she blinks away her own pain, focusing with a kind yet lecturing voice. “Hold still. This should stop the bleeding sooner rather than later.”

Sweat gathers on her forehead as her adrenaline begins to crash from the initial gunfight. Though they hear soldiers’ voices in the distance, Sasha’s nose scrunches at the scent in the air while otherwise focusing on her arm. On Bayley, more specifically, and how tender her actions are. Her eyes wander to the red-colored bandage on her arm, watching the blood pool against its underside without dripping through as Bayley fixes its sides so it lies flat.

“Where did you even get━”

They’re interrupted by a bullet pinging against the wall where they hide. Ricocheting loudly, so much that they grimace at the sound and their movements still. Once its reverberation comes to an end, Bayley’s patchwork continues.

“Your backpack,” the answer is simple. “Some time before they confiscated them, I managed to get a rag. Just in case my leg wound reopened.”

“Good thinking,” a laugh is weakly ushered out, truncated by another shot taken against the wall. “Bayley, we have to do something, and _fast.”_

Finally, the rag is securely tied around her arm. Tight enough to stay in place, yet loose enough to flex her arm and hold up without undoing itself. Sasha nods at it, then breathes out when her pain turns into a tingling sensation within her muscle. She tries to think positively, on the other hand; at least there’s no bullet lodged within her arm.

Next to her, Bayley huffs out while brushing the blood away from her hands as much as possible. Not frantically, but merely attempting to become cleaner in order to handle the gun that lies nearby. When she readjusts her crouched position where they hide, Sasha notices the swipe of blood just above her right eyebrow. Something tugs within her chest. Whether or not it’s a good feeling is yet to be seen. All she knows is that looking at Bayley seemingly calms her temperament, letting out a breath that wasn’t intentionally held, previously.

“Well, from the looks of it, we’re not getting out of this inlet without a fight,” the brunette offers after another few seconds, carefully peeking to scope out their targets in order to see how many they’re up against.

They’re at a higher vantage point now. An easy spot to take out Lacey’s men little by little. Then again, they’re sure the blonde is running to send more perpetrators to their location in order to pin them down and eliminate them once and for all. With that in mind, it’s best they hit as many targets as possible, in the meantime.

Looking out from their hiding spot, they see Lacey walking away from the site. Sasha’s blood boils, running through her veins at the highest speed. She almost gets carried away with her glaring, too, as a single bullet whizzes over their blockade. Soon, as they’re seen, more shots are taken in their direction. A clear-cut sign that it’s time to fight back.

She breathes out, looking at her partner who holds the rifle she’d taken from a soldier. Her own hands shift along a similar rifle’s handle, gripping it with ease. A motion she’d done time and time again. Bayley looks at her, eyes shining and features still covered in dust from the cave’s blast. Then, a tiny grin appears. An understanding one, at that. One that says she knows they’re up against an entire army, and it’s them two against dozens of foes. The mercenary’s throat clenches, but she makes sure to mirror her expression.

“Are you ready to do this, Bay?”

At the question, a remembrance sparks within her brain, thinking back to what she said to Becky toward the beginning of their venture.

_“You all think I’m some fragile creature that can’t fend for herself. Especially Sasha.”_

Clearly, they’ve grown. Clearly, they’ve come monumentally far, and she’s proven her worth. She’s just as much of a protector as Sasha is.

Her smile turns into a tiny smirk before Sasha’s eyes, nodding decisively while getting into position.

“Let’s get to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We stan escapee Horsewomen (and good duo arcs, like Sasha now wanting Bayley to fight alongside her + Bayley being stoked to do just that). 
> 
> No, but seriously. Goodie! They're away from Lacey and Rhea (who is suspiciously anxious for an evil person). Now, Charlynch just needs to get to them ASAP. Which, obviously, we'll see soon since Charlotte and Becky are surely on their way through the caves. Though, ofc, they went the opposite way. So, they'll be encountering some fun (totally not fun!) things down there. Avery sure is... something. 
> 
> Speaking of Charlynch, they had some good progress here, I think. Their cave conversation is actually one of the first pieces of dialogue I wrote for this story. It was a happy moment that really made me think of their potential in this type of AU setting, given their history in here and their previous animosity. In regards to what they discussed, I'm gonna go ahead and tell you that it's super important to remember for the rest of this fic. The fact that they want to put a name on their relationship, but they're both afraid of jumping the gun (no pun intended) and/or forcing this big life on the other... it's very important in terms of how we end up. It makes a lot of sense for how they operate and react to one another, moving forward. ESPECIALLY Becky. That's all imma say.
> 
> So. Here's where I leave you for a bit again. I wanted to let you see Baysha again before I took off to finish the last stretch of island chapters. Spoiler alert: next chapter is one of my favorites, as well. But yes, I'm not sure when I'll be back but usually I take, what, two weeks? Not sure. I've been working diligently, so let's hope that continues. 
> 
> Until then, enjoy yourselves, and you can message me at any point on Tumblr ("wwe-charlie"), or on here! Thanks, friends. :')


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME BACK.
> 
> I've been working like a madman to get this new chapter out before this hiatus hits the standard two-week span I'd been using. I feel like we left Charlynch in such a random place that I didn't want last chapter's memories to go stale, so quickly. If you need a refresher, I'd advise you to skim through last chapter before moving onto this one, though it's not necessary. The important thing is: I'M BACK, we're back, they're back.
> 
> I'll talk to you more at ze bottom, as per usual.

TUES., 12:47 P.M.

* * *

Their echoing footsteps gradually slow down until they’ve stopped completely. Stood in place with their postures stiffening. Turning frigid, yet confusingly so. A dumbfoundedness taking over the air around them, as well. A mild puzzlement stirring the atmosphere, maybe, or aspects to portray how taken aback they are by the sudden, random setting laid out before them.

Up until now, for the last ten or so minutes down the right side of the fork since they’d last seen Avery’s display of leftover gibbets, the air has calmed down. No more explosions, no shaking of the tunnels. No crumbling rocks or misplaced sounds to set their teeth on edge. Their ears have merely focused on the sound of water droplets pitter-pattering against the cave floor in scarce areas. Meanwhile, their eyes have focused through the flames of their torches on the path ahead of them. Where it slopes, where it curves, where it’s disrupted by the resemblances of a pothole or divot in the ground. Overall, it’s been serene and bearable. Not provocative in the least bit.

Here, however, that shoddy relaxation comes to an abrupt halt. An immediate end as they’ve stepped into another, hollowed-out room. Another clearing full of Avery’s creepy “decorations.” Except, this time, it’s not hanging rope-bags of bones they’re staring at. That’s not what they’re vehemently avoiding, or keeping their distance from.

No, this is far creepier.

Becky’s breath turns shallow, and her hand stiffens next to Charlotte’s. It’s felt against her wrist, too. Normally, the historian would reach for her partner’s fingers to calm her with a gentle touch. A glide against her skin in a subtle solidarity. This time, she’s far too fixated on the scenery in front of them. Her rousing curiosity, to boot.

Despite her own dismay, brown eyes study the sight. The image of a cloth-wrapped… _body._ The shape of a person with a tight, eggshell-colored piece of fabric thrown over them from head to toe, standing vertically. Atop of the fabric ━ keeping them in place ━ are various ropes. Around their neck, causing their head area to be unmistakable. Around their shoulders, saving their arms from swaying. Around their thighs, as well, and their ankles until the sheet is sealed at the very bottom. All pieces of rope otherwise tying the multiple bodies to thick, wooden stakes shoved into the ground. Like Avery had said, “Fuck it,” to the idea of using his Hangman technique, and instead opted to turn these into ominous forms lining the following tunnel. The tunnel they’ll be entering, hoping to pass these oddities with their stomachs in tact.

The Irish woman already feels her psyche deteriorating at the sight and wonderance. That dreaded unknown.

Even so, the begrudged unknown doesn’t stop her from shuffling closer. Charlotte’s eyes don’t wander to her partner, unlike other times. They simply bore into the subtle eye sockets of one of the forms. The bridge of their nose that pokes out from under the thin sheet, being its obvious shape.

“Are they… mummies?” Becky’s murmur is hoarse, semi-choked up as she keeps her distance yet also observes at a better angle.

“That’s no mummification process I’ve ever seen,” the historian explains, recalling every piece of text she’d soaked in, all within a flash instance. “Pirates don’t do that, anyway. At least, not that I’ve studied. It’s more of a religious thing.”

Becky swallows the nervous lump in her throat, shifting her boots against the rock.

She feels like she’s staring directly into empty eyes. Even if they’re not legitimately watching her, she feels uneasy. Something prods at her gut, wondering what deep shit they’ve stumbled into with Avery. No matter the price of his treasure, nothing is worth these depictions. These understandings of how he conducted business. There’s no doubt this was a real person. A real person with a soul, with a life. In light of whatever pirated thing they must’ve done to make it onto the island, no matter the obscene things they must’ve partaken in to join forced with Avery, they still had something to live for. A breath in their lungs, a beating heart in their chest.

Charlotte was right: this is inhumane, even for pirates. This isn’t giving them a death sentence anymore. Avery took the time to make a mockery of those who stood against him. He took the time to revel in it, and turn them into what Becky has been joking about, for a while: decorations. He knew no bounds, in the end.

Behind her, the blonde in thought doesn’t notice her partner’s hesitance. Moving to ramble, continuing her response from before.

“Then again, I never knew anyone to hang rope-bags full of bones from the ceiling, either,” it’s given with a weak, absentminded chuckle as she walks to stand alongside the redhead.

That’s when she notices the solemn look staining Becky’s attitude. The paleness of her features, and the obvious distress. The sudden, metaphorical slap in her face about what they’re dealing with. The appearance of intrusive thoughts and the weight of everything they’ve consumed, while here. As if it’s finally picking at Becky’s persona, after the shit they’ve endured from the get-go of this trip.

Charlotte frowns intensely. Overly concerned, although the hunter doesn’t notice.

“Are you alright, Becks?” she asks, tilting her head forward so she can hopefully see into vacant, brown eyes.

Seemingly, the Irish woman breaks out of whatever headspace she’d unwillingly entered. Her mouth fumbles open as she focuses on Charlotte’s caring features, lip quivering in attempt to speak. Nothing comes out, much to her annoyance. Maybe a crack exits the back of her throat, but that’s it. Nothing substantial, and nothing readily able to cover up her teetering mindset. Nothing to assure Charlotte of her bravado. Either way, they’d know it’s farce, even if she managed to put on a brave face.

“Do you need a minute?”

At the question, Becky shakes her head and lifts her eyes to the ceiling in strive to wipe away the unrelenting, bad scenarios.

“We don’t have a minute.”

“We can _make_ a minute,” the historian states with conviction, also a hint of lecture.

“No, it’s…” her voice falls, taking in a deep breath. “I’m fine, I swear. It’s just that…” against her better judgement, her gaze lifts to the mummy-esque entity in front of them, “Avery truly is his own special breed.”

Charlotte raises her eyebrows in agreement. She’s about to excuse it, and to say that they can still take a brief rest, anyway. After all, they’ve been moving non-stop for hours, and she’s sure air pressure below the mountain isn’t the safest in terms of being on the brink of a panic attack or identity crisis. Whatever Becky is dealing with, that is. But, rather quickly, all of her suggestions and sweet caresses of Becky’s emotional state are lost when her partner walks away.

Not only does she simply walk away, but, once she passes the second mummy-like figure at the new tunnel’s mouth, they hear a fuse ignite. The uncanny hiss of it. Along with a collective, two sparks that light up the mummy’s neck area and cascade new shadows on the wall.

Neither woman has time to say, shout, or express anything before it happens: Charlotte’s backwards sprint toward where they entered and away from the first cloth-wrapped body, Becky’s forward dive away from the second, and the inevitable explosion that blows chunks of rocks from the walls.

On instinct, they cover their heads and brave the debris that collapses, Becky feeling a baseball-sized rock hit her funny bone as she twitches at the numb sensation along her tendons. Charlotte winces and slams her eyes shut, likewise, all while hoping it doesn’t shatter the tunnel between them. It’s not that the explosions are large ━ in fact, they’re the equivalent of setting off street fireworks within a small, basement room, except with fire ━ however the cave’s age doesn’t bode well for its infrastructure. Not to mention Avery’s tinkering with the walls by excavating a whole labyrinth through.

All of that aside, luckily they’d stalled beneath another archway. Another support factor that doesn’t shatter easily. It gives them both a peace of mind, though being approximately fifteen feet apart and separated by a cloud of thick, dusty smoke doesn’t provide them much comfort.

They cough hard while getting back to their feet. Charlotte leaves the torch by her boots as she brushes herself off, and Becky wastes no time in scrambling over to her partner. Simultaneously shielding her squinting eyes from the smoke, using her hand. Behind her, the torch she’d been holding is long forgotten. Turned to ash on the ground. It’s not important, anyway.

“Should’ve expected that, huh?” Becky chokes out once she speaks, tasting dirt and making a face. “Are you okay?” she asks once Charlotte is finally in her clear vision.

A thick band of ash is worn against the blonde’s forehead, accompanied by mud on her cheeks. A mixture of sweat and dirt from the explosion. Her hair is messy, as well, and damp at the tips, cascading onto her filthy, previously white tank-top. Becky knows she, herself, looks just as hellish. She can practically feel the matted dirt to her cheekbones and along her neck. Also against her forearms, and her pants. She knows they’ve been through absolute heck, and they’ve clawed their way through some tedious positions. Their appearances prove it.

But, really, she can’t help but smile. Her cheeks fullen at the sight of Charlotte’s attempts to tidy herself up, and a tiny snicker comes through while shaking her head. At first, the historian’s brows furrow in confusion, all before she gradually mirrors the out-of-place wave of delusional relief. Her odd happiness, too. She beams, heavy breaths coming out when she stops. Then, her throat clears enough to answer.

“I’m okay. A little deaf, but I’ll make it,” the admission is quiet. “You were saying about Avery?” there’s another, shared chuckle, and Becky halfheartedly rolls her eyes at the deranged pirate.

“Lost my torch, by the way,” the redhead informs as they begin to walk, albeit carefully. “We’ll have to make do. Though, I hope it’s not too long of a walk after those things,” it’s spoken beneath her breath.

“Mm,” Charlotte raises her eyebrows. “And I assume those weren’t the last of them.”

“Well, on the bright side... according to Bayley’s booby-trap theory, we’ve finally found ourselves a hot trail.”

The slanted grin Becky gives her is cheeky and a shade bashful. As if she’s attempting to reach for optimism so strenuously that it’s obviously silly. Charlotte snickers, then joins in.

“Plus, now we know what’s causing all of these cave-ins.”

“I’m still not betting against Lacey’s goons using explosives,” the other woman disagrees with a creased forehead. “I’ve seen them at work. Any excuse to blow things up.”

Her partner laughs, “Sounds like a happy bunch.”

“Yeah, yet _I’m_ the one called Loose Canon,” it comes with the shake of her head, being clearly annoyed by the nickname’s meaning.

Next to her, Charlotte smiles largely. Soon, she mimics Becky in shaking her head free of the playful banter. It’s comforting, she thinks, but there’s no way she’s letting her guard down against the tunnels.

Certainly not as they currently approach a slope heading downward into a lower chamber. An obstacle they’ll need to accomplish, as there’s nowhere left to go on the path they’ve been walking. Not unless they’d like to rifle through boulder upon boulder, blocking the upper path.

“God, I’m starting to hate this place,” the redhead crouches down, hoping to see into the shadows beneath the floor where they’ll be heading.

“‘Starting to’?”

“You know what I mean, love.”

Again, she smiles. It’s lesser than before, on the other hand. It’s nerve-stricken, and knowing of what they’re about to do. How they’re close to sliding down a slope full of gravel ━ save the mud, this time ━ in hopes that they’re close to nearing the end of this ongoing death-trap.

The only saving grace about this slide is that it’s wide enough for the both of them to drop down together, instead of braving it one after the other. In Charlotte’s mind, it’s a major relief. She knows Becky would usually insist that she goes first, just in case. This way, she’s able to mutually protect the treasure hunter without argument or debate. And, judging by the way brown eyes glance at her with a mild irritation ━ wariness, more like ━ Charlotte can tell that Becky detects the same implications of the slope’s width; if she’s put in danger at the bottom, then so is the historian.

“Okay, we’ll go together,” Becky all but huffs when she sees the look in ocean eyes lit by a flame. “But, if it’s a trap, you run ahead of me, or you do whatever to save yourself,” she instructs. “No question, right? You keep yourself safe.”

The seriousness in her eyes is telling, Charlotte thinks. It’s pleading with her to listen, and to not question it. She remembers before they headed on this trip, and how Becky vehemently implored the three of them to listen to her. To not move until she said so, and to not touch anything unless otherwise told. Even though they’re now on the same wavelength of knowing they’re partners, knowing they’re not leader and follower… Charlotte still knows that the other woman is more acclimated in this area. She knows the ins and outs of it, and she knows that, at the end of the day, her care is what drives her decisions when it comes to them working together. After everything, the historian can see that Becky’s choices depend on her affection and determination to keep her safe.

Not using her voice, Charlotte nips at her inner cheek and nods. She can’t afford to speak, or wonder why Becky won’t reconsider.

A brown gaze notes her trepidation about accepting the agreement, so she doesn’t push it. Part of her wants to apologize for being so harsh, anyway. Or sounding harsh, at least. After everything, she should be more careful, more gentle with her words. Especially when it comes to the woman staring right at her. Then again, it’s not like this task is something to be taken lightly. It’s not like this whole trip has been a walk in the park, or something they can get by with flying colors. It’s been something serious, and something dangerous. And, given Avery’s recent tactic of flushing them out with explosive skeleton-mummies, it’s worse than they could’ve imagined. It’s even getting harder, as they move along.

“Ready?” Charlotte asks, breaking Becky’s inner thought-cycle.

“Oh━um, yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she flashes her a weak smile, then offers the other woman her hand.

After a short period of hesitance, Becky takes it. Clasping her partner’s hand in hers, firmly so. Although, still loose enough to let go once they hit the ground, just in case.

With a pair of sealed lips and peeled eyes, the two women perch their back ends on the slope’s peak before sliding themselves downwards. It’s a short decline of about ten feet until it drops off, letting them fall another five until their boots hit the floor.

When they do, however, it’s a mad scramble. A wide-eyed moment of noticing the lit fuses of five sheet-covered entities surrounding them in a circular clearing. Through their panic, their clasped hands take them to the mouth of a branching tunnel, synchronizing a forward dive with Becky’s arm wrapping around her partner’s shoulders.

They feel a thud of all five mummies exploding at once. The sound of bones clattering onto the ground with hollow thumps until they roll awkwardly to the crevices of the room. Smoke fills the air, their noses breathing in the chalky residue while they’re pressed to the ground with their heads slowly raising. Becky’s arm retracts from Charlotte’s shoulders, looking around before brushing her hair free of stray gravel. She eases herself upwards, then cautiously pulls the historian to her feet.

“Deaf again?”

“It’s going to be permanent soon,” the blonde brushes herself off, focusing on the thighs of her jeans and the skin of her arms.

Once she’s settled, they proceed to walk down the tunnel. Actually, it’s more like a punctual corridor until they’re entering another room. Another room full of rope-bags containing bones, more specifically. On sight, they both make dreadful faces. Although, unlike the last time, they’re less surprised by it. They’re less stunned by the brutality of it, and Becky’s shoulders slump as they stand in the area’s entrance.

“More Halloween decorations,” the Irish woman’s voice is dull, being a musing that slipped from her lips as she treads carefully.

“Honestly, I might start thinking that way, too,” Charlotte looks around, observing what looks to be ribcages hung from the ceiling. “Preserves one’s sanity,” her nose scrunches.

Her partner wanders further into the room, moving closer to the board of scribbled description. The same likeness as the first bone room, having a frantic and deliberate carving drawn into a wooden board. An anger to it, and clear betrayal strewn within the lettering. She tilts her head to the side.

“Ehm…” her forehead creases before she reads. _“‘The hearts that hardened against me,’”_ a sigh exits her nose, turning back to Charlotte. “‘Least we know Avery would’ve had a shot at being a poet if this pirate gimmick fell through.”

She snickers, “That’s some positive thinking.”

“D’ah, preserves one’s sanity,” the woman’s smirk is childish and a shade smug, getting Charlotte to dip her head in impressed admission.

“Touché.”

The historian moves closer to the room’s exit, waiting for Becky to catch up. Once she does, they walk together. Following the wall’s bend with their torch lighting the walls with its consistent, orange glow. Within seconds, it also provides shadows upon the new room’s walls. Shadows they didn’t wish to see again, and shadows that cause the pair of women to all but groan.

More mummy objects.

Oddly enough, as they tip-toe closer to the three clothed skeletons, they don’t hear a fuse. They don’t see sparks, either, or feel the impending explosion vibrate their boots. Nothing comes, as they pass the first. The second one in line brings about an additional sense of agitation, as if the initial mummy-like anomaly wasn’t enough to spike their adrenaline. Again, nothing happens as they eye the upstanding, tall figure. Like earlier, they can almost feel it staring back at them. Charlotte leans closer to Becky, walking with their arms brushing and their joint fear filling the area. Nearly making them deaf, just like the explosions would.

“Duds?” the treasure hunter wonders aloud, the word forced from her throat.

“I’m not sure,” blue-green eyes don’t evade the entity’s presence, “but I think the lack of explosion makes me even more anxious.”

“Agreed,” it’s mouthed, making sure to walk cautiously past the third and final body-shaped explosive.

Their innards unclench once they’ve passed the traps, as well as put a decent amount of space between them and the explosives. They physically feel their biceps tingle with a dwindling, coiled reaction, and their legs feel like jelly. Likewise, their stomachs gurgle with a sourness dissipating. Not that they sensed any of it before, really; they were too busy focused on not getting blown to bits. Additionally, they let out an in-sync breath as they continue along the path.

Until there’s another hole in the floor, at least.

“You have _got_ to be fucking with━”

“No, it’s okay,” Charlotte grabs Becky’s arm to interrupt her cursing of Avery, waving the torch closer to the fall’s entrance. “It’s just another bone room.”

“‘Just another bone room’? Lass, I’ll be having nightmares about those bone rooms for years to come!” it’s squeaky, raspy, and the historian snickers at her outright displeasure.

“It’s that or explosives. Choose,” she faces her partner, Becky deadpanning. “Positive thinking, remember?”

She huffs through her nose, “Right, right.”

With a thud, Becky’s boots drop down onto the ground. Charlotte follows suit, being held in place by the Irish woman’s delicate hands. She flashes her a grateful smile, nearly stumbling into the room but being guided to her feet.

Her words are lost, realistically. Because, similar to before, they’re both too focused on this room being cluttered with not bone-filled rope-bags, but jawbones strung from the ceiling on twine-like fibers. Dangling like windchimes waiting for a breeze to pass through. Their teeth are the worst part, if you were to ask Becky. Still intact, the majority in their rightful places. Some discolored, turned black.

She scrunches her nose at them, making a face and walking closer to the wooden plaque.

 _“‘The mouths that spoke ill of me,’”_ it’s read, then Becky scoffs. “Okay, if I ever get _this_ crazy, I want you to pull the plug.”

Her statement gets Charlotte’s attention, mildly caught off-guard by the comment. She spins around to face the treasure hunter whose eyes roam the ceiling, Charlotte frowning.

“Which plug are we talking?” her voice rasps with the question, hoping Becky’s not referring to what she thinks she is.

“I don’t know, just pull a plug,” the redhead’s hand waves in a sort of passiveness, speaking absentmindedly while walking past her partner.

Charlotte lets it go, especially once she hears Becky change the subject by saying, “These rooms are getting closer together. We must be getting somewhere.”

The historian is close to agreeing when they’re paused again. It seems they’ve stopped hunting for their friends, and began to sightsee against their will.

Different from the last few times, this depiction is less disturbing ━ less unknowing ━ and more so dumbfounding. More so amazing, and baffling. The same emotion they were filled with when they first entered Tew’s dining hall to see the skeletons sat in their chairs at his table. The same emotion they felt when finding that lone entity lounging along a red sofa, note in hand from Avery, himself, detailing his disagreement with Tew.

Because, as they enter another room, the flame of their torch lights up the brick-worked walls containing a massacre. A large, flattened and chiseled room with skeletons lying atop various boxes and stacks of wood. All of them dressed in high-honored armor to keep them protected from the war they were involved in. Obviously, it didn’t help. Very clearly shown in the way swords and spears are stuck between some skeletons’ ribs, through others’ skulls. Some of the skinless soldiers are chopped up into a pile of tarnished rubble, covered in dust and webbings.

Overall, dozens of skeletons clutter the room, spanning all the way to the creaked-open, wrought-iron door at the far end of it.

Mindful of their steps, Becky and Charlotte begin to cross the space’s length. Careful not to crush any brittle bones in their wake, or disturb the scene. However, as they approach the first, few pieces of armor, they’re able to make out Avery’s sigil, then Tew’s. Markings of their leaders. It gives them a clearer idea of what happened.

“Missing pieces to our theory?” Becky peers over her shoulder to look at Charlotte.

“Tew’s men versus Avery’s,” the response is simple. “To the death.”

Approaching the door, they notice a single skeleton propped up against its frontside. Not before Becky accidentally knocks him over, though. He falls onto the ground with a thud, the Irish woman muttering a quiet “Oops,” in the process. The lone word is muffled, as it’s spoken. It’s not even cognitive, really. Because, once she knocks him over, they both hear the metallic chime of a key dropping to the stone floor. She frowns, kneeling to pick it up. Naturally, she flashes Charlotte a childish beam while showing the blonde her discovery.

“Look, a skeleton key.”

The historian rolls her eyes, albeit keeping a dopey smile on her face.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“That was a top-tier joke,” she doesn’t get up from the ground, instead going wide-eyed. “Fallen into my lap,” it’s spoken animatedly. “I couldn’t just leave it.”

Her partner puts her hands on her hips. Becky, meanwhile, still stays knelt on the floor after sliding the key into her pocket. Her eyes scan the area, landing on a dirty note that previously kept the key contained in the skeleton’s coat pocket. She picks it up with a pondering crease in her forehead, quickly scanning its contents. Charlotte watches her, waiting a moment before asking about it.

“What’s it say?”

“The gist?” Becky folds it, pulling her backpack from her shoulders and sliding the note into its compartment. “It’s from Tew to his men in their attempts to foil Avery’s escape,” she looks at the other woman as she regains an eye level.

“Wonder if they managed…” Charlotte stares at the door, tilting her head slightly so she can peek through the crack.

She can’t see much, unfortunately. Nothing besides cave structure and shadows.

“Time to find out,” the hunter’s fingers curl around the door’s edge, prying its iron hinges open with a good amount of muscle.

On the other side of the barricade is more, smoothed out walls. More excavation. Ultimately, an underlying assumption that’s given to Becky. A hopeful one, at that.

“The walls… they’re cemented brick,” she notes, looking at Charlotte before walking forward. “Tells me we’re close to something big.”

“Like a grand finale?” an eyebrow is quirked, her facade being less amused and positive about it, yet more dreadful and pointed.

“When you put it like that…” the Irish woman’s rebuttal wavers, knowing what she means: the likelihood of this being the tunnels’ end means they’re also close to a bigger trap, or a bigger obstacle.

It proves all too true within the next, two minutes when they’re following the cave’s blocky curve, only to realize they’ve stepped into a stretch of labyrinth lined with endless, exploding bodies on each side. A skinny corridor full of them for as far as the eye can see.

Except, as soon as Becky’s boot accidentally knocks a stone close to the first body’s base, the initial fuse is lit. Actually, the first four explosives’ fuses are lit, sparking quickly with Becky ushering out an initial “Shit, shit, shit━” that’s cut off by Charlotte tugging on her arm, a sharp “Run forward!” being heard.

They rush straight ahead and through the exploding hallway. Desperately guarding their heads, sprinting side by side against the debris shooting every which way. Being tailed by a large, mounting, puff of smoke that chases them as they escape each one of the seemingly endless, igniting mummy figures.

“When will it _end?”_ Becky stresses as they run, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

“Don’t know. Just keep moving,” Charlotte grits her teeth while keeping the torch in front of them, letting them see where they’re going to make sure they don’t trip over anything.

They pass at least ten more pairs of mummies on their way out of the dangerous cave area. The two women squeak between them, seeing the tunnel get more narrow until they dive out into a clearing with no mummies. Actually, they primarily stumble into it with Becky tripping over her own feet. Charlotte manages to keep them both upright, though hunched over and catching their breath with their hands on their knees. The torch lies next to them, flickering little by little until it’s picked back up by the historian. No need to let their only light source give out.

Behind them, the massive booms settle, and less bones roll amongst the ground. The air quiets.

“God, this can’t be healthy to breathe in,” Becky shakes her head when the smoke stings her eyes, feeling it fill her lungs whenever she inhales.

“At least we’re breathing,” the historian ushers out a small laugh, cracking her back once she straightens her posture again.

Another cough is given, Becky nodding in agreement.

“Wait, look,” Charlotte tries not to sound too hopeful, the redhead following her line of sight. “Natural light.”

As she focuses through the smog, she catches the flickering streams of a yellow light, being full of dust and coming from the next room. It’s definitely a good sign, they decide, but their caution doesn’t alleviate. Not yet, anyway.

The blonde’s grip on the torch holds steady as they move closer to the next room’s entrance. Becky walks ahead of her, just by a hair, making sure to guard her partner if anything were to go awry. Charlotte can tell what she’s doing, but doesn’t mention it. She promised the hunter she’d listen, and she intends on keeping that promise. For now, at least.

Once they round the corner, more hope comes. Actually, they’re so relieved by the sight that they nearly smile at it. They nearly disregard the dozens of exploding, white-tarped mummies, in the process.

Across the rough and now-grassy clearing is another, iron door. This one wholly closed and larger in scale. Grandiose, in one word. Tall, and magnificent, as if it’ll lead them to a new world.

Immediately, their progress is stunted by the scene. Their muscles relax at the fresh air filtering into the space by the ceiling. In fact, their eyes squint when their pupils are bothered by the daylight creating spots of warmth on the muggy ground. Vines seep into its broken mouth by the roof, as if it wasn’t intentionally a skylight for the caverns. Technically speaking, the rubble on the ground also supports that theory. That aside, Becky and Charlotte are overly enthralled in the subtle breeze that hits their sweaty skin. Their glistening, muddy skin that’s blemished with rock burns and scrapes. A sad result of their multiple stumbles and clamoring to escape the explosive mummy-esque items’ effects ━ A.K.A. something they’ll seemingly have to conquer here, as well.

“Careful,” Charlotte whispers in her ear, Becky nodding without turning to her.

Furthermore, before the redhead can take a sole step forward, her partner leaves behind their torch and uses both hands to clasp onto her forearm. Holding onto it, gingerly yet solidly. Giving them both a shared encouragement to push forward, winding through the many poles of explosive bodies that line the room. Hell, they can’t even count how many are cluttering the area. There are at least five packed in the middle of a circular path that splits two ways toward the room’s beginning, then many more lining each side of it. Then, hung from the ceiling are skeletons tied by their ankles. Others collected within rope-bags. Soulless bodies everywhere, used as scare tactics and one, giant endgame of a room.

The grand finale, they decide.

Becky feels the grip on her arm tighten as they shuffle, their joint steps moving closer to the inner circle of traps.

“You keepin’ yourself balanced this time?” the hunter tries to joke, getting a weak laugh from the woman attached to her body.

“Keeping _us_ balanced, actually.”

“How d’ya figure I need it?”

“Want me to let go?”

There’s a pause, then a sudden “No.”

“Okay, then,” Charlotte speaks knowingly, lightly and teasingly, through pinched teeth.

Not long after, they reach the door. Its keyhole prominent, being an exact fit for the item within the redhead’s pocket. They know it.

Around them, the quietness of the forms crowding the room ━ like before ━ doesn’t ease their nerves. Instead, Charlotte’s gaze flickers around the space while her partner digs for the key within her pocket. It’s held between her fingers once she’s able, joking in hopes of soothing their mounting grievances.

“Door number…” she thinks, “what are we up to now? Four?”

The other woman ignores the joke, taking in shallow breaths. Becky listens, giving the blonde a slanted smile before slowly reaching to unlock the door. Before she manages, her hand is grabbed. A gentle grip on her wrist, stopping her. If that wasn’t enough, Charlotte’s quiet “Wait” is.

Becky pauses, looking at her with delicate eyes.

“What if it’s a trap?” the worry is presented, afterwards sealing her lips tightly.

The Irish woman’s shoulders falter, head ducking. She tilts it partly, once glancing at Charlotte through her eyelashes. Regretfully, there’s no other way. She knows the historian is aware of it, and doesn’t necessarily want to hear it, but she can’t ignore the underlying plea. Becky just hopes her presence is more reassuring now than it’s been in other circumstances. Nowadays, they’re on the same page. They’re working together. And, nowadays, Becky takes her partner’s woes into consideration. She acknowledges them, and doesn’t pretend they, as people, are invincible. They’re not heroes, nor are they perfect. They’re not untouchable, and, quite frankly, a lot of shit has happened. But, with that said, they’ve braved it all together. It’s something they’ll have to do again, right here.

“We don’t really have a choice,” she says, a sad look in her eye, and Charlotte takes in a shaky breath. “I know,” her agreement is quiet, yet speaks volumes. “I’m with you.”

Ocean eyes stare at her, being understanding and relenting. A flicker of tasting Becky’s mutual trepidation in regards to the door, and not pretending it’s a risk they so-frivolously are taking. It’s something they _have_ to do, against their safety.

Still, Becky waits for a response. Something verbal, and giving her the green light so they can proceed. When it doesn’t come, she eases her head forward a fraction.

“Okay?” it’s asked quietly, carefully.

Again, Charlotte waits. Becky watches the wheels behind her gaze turn with anticipation growing, all before she gives it a forming nod.

“Do it.”

Her partner matches the gesture. Before taking the leap and opening the door, however, she rubs her thumb along Charlotte’s knuckle in a spur-the-moment indulgence. A motion to give her another, mental shove. A smaller form of encouragement that keeps her strong enough and in a better mindset. The historian smiles at her tenderness, watching the other woman turn away.

“Here goes nothing,” it’s exhaled, Becky squinting one eye while slipping the key into its hole.

There’s a click, then a stronger clunk, and Charlotte’s panic spikes until the door opens with ease. Its hinges squeak with age, being rusted and tired from the years of withstanding the smoggy innards of the cave mixed with outside elements from the broken ceiling. Still, they see more sunlight on the other side. A breathtaking sight, at the same time as being comforting. Coddling, in a way. Providing them with a much-needed sense of security. Their hearts flutter at the knowledge they’ll soon be in the open, a pair of light smiles given.

Becky begins to laugh.

“Well, that went better than expected.”

It’s all too comical when a zipping noise is heard, being too quick and too random to formulate what’s happening before their fate is met.

In the blink of an eye, Becky and Charlotte are smiling at each other due to the door’s easy opening, followed by a trigger being set off and their feet being taken out from underneath them with a mirrored grunt. Before they know it, they’re scooped up into a larger rope-bag with their legs dangling out from its squared punctures. Hands holding onto the ropes, as well, with Charlotte practically sitting in Becky’s lap. They’re pulled roughly fifteen feet into the air, swaying with the force of their bodies enduring the quick motions.

The historian’s eyes close in annoyance with Avery, shaking her head while Becky, on the other hand, finds their position a bit more humorous. She smirks at their proximity, how the blonde is quite literally on top of her, and she keeps her arm around the woman’s waist. When Charlotte notices her smug nature, she quirks an eyebrow. Becky doesn’t stop her antics.

“Come here often?”

Much to her discontent, a tiny grin appears on her face. She wipes it away immediately, shaking her head and looking around.

“Really not the time, Becks.”

“Why not?” she argues, a crack in her defense. “It’s a break in the action.”

On cue, an explosion sounds from the room’s entrance. One of the fuses lighting on the mummy objects and bursting, being yet another trigger from the door. A delayed one, at that, or something to play cat and mouse with them.

“Or not,” the Irish woman’s panic resurfaces, and Charlotte’s mouth falls open.

The bag begins to sway when they move in franticness, especially once another fuse lights in the distance. Putting on more pressure.

“Okay, okay, okay,” with her eyes moving this way and that, the historian mutters the rapid-fire words. “Um…” she sees that the rope-bag is hauled up by a single, thick fiber. “You didn’t bring a knife, did you?”

“No,” Becky’s eyes bug with her shoulders tightening, another boom echoing in the background. “I didn’t even bring first-aid, Charlotte.”

“Oh, but you brought coffee,” her teeth grit, kneeling on the other woman.

“I did bring━why are you _kneeling_ on me?”

“That guy’s got a sword,” her hand is shoved between the ropes, pointing to a nearby skeleton with the same fate that they’ve been taken into. “Help me swing the bag so we can reach it,” tactfully, she leans her legs back through the bag’s underside, ready to help pump them back and forth.

Another tarp-covered skeleton erupts, the trail creeping closer as they try to pick up speed. They’re approximately five entities away from the current fuse being lit, and they’re no closer to reaching the sword as they were prior. Gradually, their muscles take to the objective as much as possible. Their faces contort, and their legs move in tandem to rock the rope-bag back and forth. A larger arc is created as another explosion shakes the room, hearing stones tumble down from the walls.

“Come on, come on…” Becky grits her teeth, reaching out to get the sword.

She misses, fingertips brushing its handle.

“Seriously?” it’s growled.

“We’re almost there. Keep trying.”

Two more mummy-esque figures until the fiery blasts are directly surrounding them. Their hearts beat fast at the notion, Becky feeling her eyelids sweating as her gaze travels around the room at a fast rate. Until they’re locked onto the sword, and, finally, her fingertips snatch it away from the skeleton who falls to the floor when its bag is disturbed.

With rapid hands, she raises the sword and saws at the anchoring rope holding the bag together from the ceiling. Once released, they’ll fall to the ground. She knows it’s a long crash, but it’s better than being incinerated by the sparking bodies around them. Charlotte continuously looks at Becky, then the traps, and back at Becky again while a rapid, zipping noise fills the air.

The last figure lights with a fizz, right before the blade fully cuts the rope hanging them above.

With a synchronized thud, they fall to the ground right next to the ignited body, their sword also clattering against the stone. They have to run, however. They can’t afford to lie there in pain, despite falling several feet onto their sides.

Through fast thinking, Becky shoves Charlotte’s butt so she’ll sprint through the doorway. The hunter isn’t far behind, either, as she trails the other woman. Crossing the door’s threshold, they realize that the exploding mummies within the other room weren’t the end of it. Actually, it was merely the beginning of the grand finale.

“Oh, God,” Charlotte worries as she runs, passing the already-sparking objects that don’t even wait to be triggered. “Becky, move your ass! Hurry up!” she hurdles over a fallen beam, her partner doing the same.

“I’m running as fast as I can!” it’s ground-out through pinched-together teeth, the Irish woman’s vision blurring as she sprints across quaking ground, feeling the bursts’ sweltering heat attempting to engulf her.

They see the end of the tunnel. A drop-off that leads them down into a lower layer of the mountain. A hole that might just save them from the unfortunate end of these explosions and dust filling the air. There’s a group of six tarp-covered anomalies at the end of the stretch, however. Guarding the safe haven, and keeping them from being okay. Becky almost whines at the idea of needing to pass them, especially when she sees their fuses light before they’re even relatively close to diving into the space.

“Almost” being the operative word. She doesn’t get the chance to react at all.

Instead, she trips over a more-discreet, stray beam halfway protruding out from the ground, mere yards away from the path’s culmination. A familiar falling during an event where they can’t bear to stop, even for a second. Like when they were running through the fallen tower, and she misplaced her footing. When she got her ankle lodged in that broken window, and felt hopeless.  

And, like then, it’s familiar when she’s face-down on the stone, cataclysmic events unfolding around her, and kind hands pull her to her feet with a soft “No, no, no.”

Becky doesn’t have time to lecture the other woman about not saving herself. About sprinting to safety, no matter what. Realistically, as soon as they’re back to their feet and running in the safe place’s direction again, the explosions catch up to them.

In a single, solid and deafening blow, the tunnel explodes and they’re propelled forward into the drop-off. Bodies together, they tumble harshly down a slope of dirt. Down onto another slab of rock where dust puffs out from under their bodies. They fall with their backs flat against the stone, both of them grunting as their spines meet the unwavering end with Becky’s bag sliding nearby.

That’s not the final shot to their easy travels, to no one’s surprise. In an aftershock, one last explosion is heard above them, sending larger pieces of gravel downwards. Becky’s eyes widen, flipping over so she can protect Charlotte’s still body. Curling blonde hair into the cavity of her neck while keeping her eyes closed and feeling rocks hit the hand that guards her own head. Noises of smaller pebbles trickling to the ground follow, being a dusting around them that, eventually, settles. The gurgling of the mountain ceases, and she hears birds chirping in the distance.

Her breath is heavy once it’s all finished, lifting her eyes to peer around the space. It’s full of smoke and leftover debris, but she sees the outside. Unrestricted, unbarred. A welcomed walk onto the cliffside, only twenty yards away.

She smiles heavily, then flops onto her back with deep breaths filling and emptying her lungs. She wets her dirt-covered lips, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand while staring up at where they fell from. A wince contorts her features, but she shakes it off.

“Thanks, Captain Avery,” it’s sarcastic yet airy, borderline in disbelief that they made it through.

No response from her partner.

More specifically, _silence_ comes from her partner. An unsettling silence. One that notifies Becky that something isn’t right. Moreover, something is seriously _wrong._

Through fast motions, she whips her head toward Charlotte. She notes the bruises and small punctures along her skin. Drops of blood seeping out from them, but nothing too substantial. Above anything, she notices how the blonde’s eyes are closed, not flickering, and she’s not moving in any way, shape, or form. Her arms rest lifelessly by her sides and her legs aren’t even bent. Her lips are sealed, chapped and unwavering. Not sucking in air, either, like one would expect.

Becky moves instantly, inching herself into a position to lean over the other woman. Hesitantly, with careful fingertips, she cradles her cheeks. Wiping some of the soot away with her thumbs, delicately so. Otherwise, she keeps Charlotte’s head elevated, leaning close. Leaning close in hopes of hearing her partner breathing, or feeling her move between her hands.

Nothing.

Her heart stills, hurting within her chest.

“Charlie?” no avail. “Hey,” she whispers, feeling tears already lining her eyelids at the woman’s damaged state. “Hey, wake up,” her fingers curl into blonde hair, lower lip quivering. “Please?” it’s broken, mouth falling open, afterwards.

Again, no response.

Panic begins to set in with her hands shaking, though she attempts to still them. She moves closer, then brushes the backs of her fingers against the woman’s cheek. Her own breath turns shallow, also rushed, while leaning down as close as she can. Keeping her nose against Charlotte’s, then resting her forehead against the blonde’s while her eyebrows furrow. Her eyes close, too. But she knows she can’t bear the teetering acceptance that’s trying to burrow itself within her mind.

No, this isn’t the end. It can’t be. It just can’t.

“Come on, baby,” the mutter is watery, shaking her head against Charlotte’s while on the cusp of breaking down. “Wake up, please.”

When the Irish woman backs up to look at Charlotte’s face, a tremor is felt in her chest. Although, she’s not sure in which emotion it’s derived from. Leaning far enough away to see the historian’s features, she notices a tiny smirk break out along her mouth. A childish smile, toying at the corner of her lips with her eyes still closed. Becky’s forehead creases further, but nothing compares to the ghastly expression she makes when Charlotte finally speaks. The horror of sudden realization. The epitome of it.

“‘Baby’?” it’s cute, teasing.

“What?” Becky frowns dangerously, and Charlotte chuckles while letting her eyes flutter open with no issue. “No, no way,” another giggle answers her. “That’s not _fucking_ funny, Charlotte. I thought you were dead.”

Like before, she flops onto her back with a thud. Dust puffing out from beneath her clothes as she hits the ground. She wears a giant pout, eyebrows knitted together, and her arms outstretch onto the ground. Charlotte moves to lean over her, unphased by the dramatics.

“Payback for all the times you almost, _legitimately_ did die,” the retort is given with ease, eyebrows raised while watching Becky shake her head. “All the times _I_ had to watch you almost, _legitimately_ die.”

“It was never on purpose,” the hunter’s rebuttal cracks, and Charlotte gives her a pointed look. “That’s not something to ‘get even’ over. Shit, you gave me a goddamn heart attack, woman,” her hands are brought up to her face, fingers massaging her eyes.

“Aw, let me listen.”

The historian’s mild guilt brings her to lean down and lay her head atop Becky’s chest. Graciously, she cuddles up to the Irish woman, resting her hand on her stomach and listening to the rapid, thumping sound of her heart. She smiles, feeling her partner’s arm shift against her shoulder.

“Your loving heart’s still there,” she revels in the sound, humming in content. “Beating, as it should,” her cheek is nuzzled further against Becky’s tactical vest, snuggling as close as she can.

Becky can’t let it all go. She can’t pretend that Charlotte didn’t listen to her back there, or that she didn’t nearly die because of it. By all accounts, the historian very well could’ve been killed as she ran backwards to provide assistance when Becky tripped. Whether or not this was a cruel prank, it still sheds light on what was a plausible outcome, anyway. As far as Becky is concerned, it only proves her point that she’s been vehemently reinforcing for the extent of this venture. She huffs.

“I told you to run ahead of me,” it’s quiet, sudden and still pouty ━ not necessarily angry, but hurt by what could’ve been.

“And I did,” Charlotte speaks without moving, hearing birds cuckoo outside. “You never told me not to turn back and help you.”

She can almost feel the treasure hunter rolling her eyes at the smart quip. Charlotte smirks at her obvious annoyance, but wipes away the expression as she lifts her head to see the other woman. In hopes of easing the sadness from Becky’s features, she brushes some dirt from her face. Purposely smushing her fingers against her filthy, sweaty skin, and giggling at the way her partner’s nose crinkles.

“You’re an absolute _mess,”_ Charlotte begins to grin heavily, the redhead snickering at the comment.

If she didn’t know she was a mess before, hearing the statement solidifies her guess of it. Come to think of it, she probably looks worse than she had before. If Charlotte’s own appearance is any indication, they’re roughly heaps of sweat, dirt, and grime. As if they’d fallen out of an unkempt chimney after years of collecting soot.

“We could use another waterfall shower,” the historian’s joke is dull, still focused on cleaning the other woman, and Becky laughs weakly.

“Not an algae bath, huh?”

“No way.”

They smile big, sharing in the moment. Their random laughter dwindles as Charlotte’s tidying up slows, ultimately ending with her sensually stroking Becky’s cheek with her thumb. It’s noticed, picking up on the new heaviness of the moment. Especially when they’re so close, Becky thinks. Their faces mere inches away, and Charlotte mostly pinning her to the ground. She holds onto the historian’s wrist, rubbing her fingers along her skin and being happy that she’s alive. For a moment, she wasn’t sure. Admittedly, she really wasn’t.

There’s a solemn shade that appears in her gaze. One that Charlotte detects. She feels apologetic for the stunt she pulled, moments ago. After everything Becky has been through, she shouldn’t act so lenient with death. It’s not something to joke about, no matter what their relationship is like. Sighing, her heart fills with remorse. So much so, a smile holding a thousand, quiet _I’m sorry_ ’s is flashed to the woman below her. Becky picks up on it, but opts to tease her, instead.

“Who’s trying to be romantic now?” she whispers, reminding her of their conversation from when they first gathered the torches.

The eye contact becomes too much for them both. For Charlotte, first and foremost. With a big smile, she manages to get out a responding “Shut up” before she leans in to kiss her partner.

Initially, it’s chaste. A short peck on the lips that they share with warmth clouding them. Immediately, their smiles are wiped away by the gesture, and, immediately, the weight of the moment sets in. How they’ve been dealing with heated tension between them since the night they shared, ending only a handful of hours ago. Their kiss brings about a familiarity. A reminder of the night’s events, and the ache in their muscles. The soreness they’ve pushed through. The marks on their necks, on their chests.

Charlotte’s eyes flicker as she nudges her nose against Becky’s, not letting her stray too far once she tries to lower her head back down to the rocky floor. She kisses her again, deepening it with intent strewn within the actions. Becky can taste it on her tongue, also feeling it in the way a hand cups her cheek to keep her in place, exhaling through her nostrils and dragging her nails along the historian’s arm.

It’s after three minutes that she gathers the strength to drift away from Charlotte’s mouth, albeit hardly. They’re still close enough to feel each other’s breath, but far enough to see into one another’s eyes. And, when they share a look, it’s full of questions. Questions of what this means, what they are. Where they’re heading, in an emotional sense. It’s no secret that they’ve grown fond of each other. Dare they even relatively nod to the idea of being in love. No, it’s not too soon, but what good is it jumping to conclusions when you haven’t even determined exclusivity?

Predominantly, those questions are on Becky’s end of things. There’s even a tiny frown on her face, more quizzacle than anything. In total, she wants a voiced response of what they are. She wants a verbalized answer as to what the historian is looking for, out of this. Judging by what they just encountered, it’s safe to say that there could come a moment where they never get an answer. It’s safe to say Becky should mention it now, while she still has the chance.

So, she does.

“Charlotte…”

It stops the woman from moving to touch their lips together again, the blonde in mention backing up with a tilted head. Not backing up too far, but inches away. Enough to whisper clearly, at least.

“What are we doing?” Becky asks, tone unreadable. “Like…”

A brief struggle ensues, working up the nerve to voice her exact wonder. Much to her surprise, she scoures for the words.

“What are we?” it’s practically mouthed.

The three words make the historian’s heart flutter. Outwardly, her mouth opens with a flicker of happiness in her eyes. A visible glint of intrigue in the question, and definitely no aspect of her features scaring Becky in the least bit. In fact, the redhead’s heart leaps in anticipation. Her lips seal, as well. She waits for a response, gaze delicate and attentive.

Leaning above her, Charlotte readies herself to ask what Becky wants to be. Where _she_ wants to go from here, and if _she_ wants to make the two of them a couple in any way, shape, or form. There’s a lump in her throat, too. Equally as nervous, like a teenager falling in love with such a young mind. It’s new, but certainly not unwanted.

What _is_ unwanted is what interrupts their conversation before it valiantly starts. An explosion is heard, being larger and outside. Coming from somewhere beyond the cliffside, resulting in a batch of large rocks trickling down from somewhere higher. They can hear the boulders rolling, then a thump coming from another, distanced area. The birds stop chirping, as well, and some even fly past the cave’s mouth in attempt to flee the violence.

Their bodies jolt at the sound, looking in the source’s direction. Begrudgingly, they know they’ll have to cut the conversation short. In an unspoken agreement, both women move until they’re sat up on the ground. Brown eyes search the area where she sits, ready to place her palms to the rock and force herself to her feet. She’s stopped before she can get a good feel for steadying herself. Surprised by the halt in her motions, too.

“Hey,” Charlotte whispers as she places a hand to Becky’s cheek.

There’s a brief pause, their eyes meeting again. Breaking the forming tension, her hand slides down to the Irish woman’s neck, and she pulls her in for one, last kiss. It lasts three seconds, feeling their lips stick together when they depart.

“We’re not finished with this, okay?” she smiles lightly at the hunter, letting her know that they will see the conversation through, once they’re able to.

Without question, Becky knows what she means. She nods, forcing a grin. This time, she’s the one to stop Charlotte from getting up too quickly. She puts her hand on the woman’s thigh, earning a frown. It’s kissed away within a split second, however. An even-shorter peck than before, being hasty and against the historian’s bottom lip. After, it warrants another smile, and they stand up together once Becky reaches for her backpack.

Right as they begin to brush themselves off from the remnants of Avery’s traps, there’s another explosion. Unlike the last, it’s tailed by an eruption of gunfire. Unmistakable bullets echoing through the air in many different directions. Some nearer, and some further than others.

They both turn to the source, wide-eyed, then back to each other in sudden, definitive realization.

“That’s _gotta_ be them,” Becky says, and Charlotte wastes no time in tugging on her arm so they can jog to the cave’s exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Superfreakin'hellalengthy author's note ahead. Not imperative to read, but gives a little insight (no big spoilers!) to future chapters, my writing progress for the story, and some other, random things.
> 
> Now, back to normal programming: 
> 
> GAH, we're almost back to the normal 4HW group, fighting alongside. Happy days! With that said, NOT SO FAST, @ self + all of you *relieved sigh*-ers. Without spoiling anything (obviously, why would I do that?), I do have to say that Becky's emotional roller-coaster is going to very much continue. We've seen her be very vulnerable with Charlotte on several occasions, and that's about to persist. Here, at the beginning of this update, we saw a shade of Becky that's very... uneasy. If I were to bluntly explain what she's feeling, it's that she didn't necessarily believe this trip would be easy, but she also didn't sign up for all of this mental strain. Adding onto her personal, emotional distress when it comes to missing Paige, finding herself, rescuing their friends, etc., it's just very overwhelming. She's going to crack. And it's something that hurt very deeply to write, if I'm honest, solely because I have to put myself into a character's shoes to thoroughly feel what they do. Especially with dialogue. So, that plays into the last... *checks*... six chapters.
> 
> HOWEVER! Why would I be such a rude person and make it all dreadful and sad? No. We have to close out the story with a bang (lol, punny), which means Charlotte, Sasha, and Bayley will pull out their best selves to help their fallen friend. "Fallen" in a mental sense. Don't worry. BUT, don't forget: Becky and Charlotte haven't met up with Sasha and Bayley since the whole, Lacey capture scenario. So, Becky isn't sure how her friends feel about her right now, and that's something that'll grind against her conscience until they meet again. Charlotte can only help her think positively so much.
> 
> Speaking of Charlotte, that looming question of "What are we?" is going to be showcased in a few spots, mostly in passing. It's setting up for something pertinent, which I've said. So, remember that. They both seem pretty involved in whatever's between them, though, so that has to mean good things. Right? 
> 
> Just an update on my writing progress: Aside from my normal "check-in" revisions which I do RIGHT before I post a chapter, I've written + first-wave-revised Ch. 35 and Ch. 36. THEN, I have Ch. 37 written entirely (a *whopping* -- and I mean *WHOPPING* -- update that I both sobbed @ and smiled @ for many different reasons) which I have to first-wave-revise before I move onto the rest. So, taking that into consideration, I think it's fair to say that this story will, indeed, wrap up after forty (yeow!) chapters. After that, I have a lot in mind for one-shots taking place in this universe, but I can't promise anything. It would be more of a leisure thing, for my own amusement. 
> 
> Nevertheless, I won't let you guys down with the ending of this fic. I hope not, at least. The upcoming chapters go very deep, and show every character's full mind, full potential, and their love for one another. I made sure the 4HW relationship is very much thriving by the end of it, and they're all vital for the endgame of this story. Miniature spoiler: Although passed away, Paige plays a vital role, as well. Becky's parents, too. Lacey (obviously, unfortunately; though she's very complex, and it's interesting), Rhea (even more complex), and one surprise character that has yet to be even mentioned. 
> 
> Random/fun note: I'm not sure how many of y'all follow me on Tumblr but I actually made a poster (it's a parody poster; concept adapted by something I'd seen online + credited) for this story, and I've had it printed. I'll be hanging it up once it comes, but it's also available for purchase on Redbubble + TeePublic in stickers/art prints/posters/etc. Just a fun little thing for something I'm actually very proud of: https://wwe-charlie.tumblr.com/post/185117115283/wwe-charlie-the-risk-of-making-amends-concept 
> 
> With all of that drabble said, thanks to all of your kudos and comments for being my little lights in the dark. Your feedback helps me immensely, not just to write more but to actually, well, not sulk in bed all day. I've gone through many rough patches throughout the extent of writing this, I've worn myself out by making this dinosaur of a fic, but it's something I'll hold onto for a very long time. Buuuut, we'll save all of that mushy gunk for the actual end. 
> 
> For now, have a nice few days until I see you again (and a nice lifetime, after that).


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday (or Monday, depending on where you are)!
> 
> I wrote and revised a buttload yesterday and today, so I'm a little ahead of schedule. Which means, instead of updating tomorrow, I chose to post today. I hope that's okay...
> 
> Anyway, read on!

TUES., 1:51 P.M.

* * *

Unfiltered daylight stings their eyes as their shoes tread atop loose gravel. Kicking it accidentally, and hearing tiny pebbles roll in front of them until they find home in a bed of patchy weeds, or somewhere off the cliffside.

For a moment, they have to pause in order to adjust their gaze. To fend off the oncoming burn behind their corneas as a harsh result of their prior travels. Being in the dark tunnels for as long as they were, they figure it’s normal. Having to shield their sight with their filthy hands, having to squint hard in order to get a decent view of their surroundings. A blur of light-blue sky mixed with soft green when their eyes begin to water. Once they blink, the teariness is gone. The mild pain, however, is not.

It gives them minor headaches, but nothing too terrible to diminish the sweetness in the cool air. The soft breeze that tickles their skin, practically kissing it while the sun warms their tousled hair. When they breathe in, it smells like fern leaves and other foliage. Like tropical flowers, too. Less muggy, and less musky. Aside from the cold sand’s scent, that is, or the ocean’s waves crashing into the shore below the cliff where they stand. Then again, the combination of aspects reminds them of a beach setting, and that’s the least bit nightmare-ish.

Charlotte even feels the desire to comment about how they should go on a better vacation after this. How this is a sign that they should take a break from the heartache and relax, for once. Together, this time. That they should do something simple, something serene. Visit a popular cottage on the coast, or a lighthouse. Somewhere warm, somewhere crowded yet able to give them their space. Anywhere other than a deserted island with hostile perpetrators after them. Anywhere with their two friends that are nowhere to be found as they look out at the vast shoreline shaded with palm trees and thicker vegetation toward the side area.

What they do find, however, piques their interest with a single glimpse. Becky’s interest, faster than Charlotte’s.

“Is that… a _galleon?”_

Blue-green eyes follow her line of sight. Actually, she doesn’t have a chance to see what the other woman is referring to before Becky is hastily wandering off to the lefthand side of the cliff.

Just past a hanging bundle of vines trickling off the upper mountain, Charlotte sees what the Irish woman noticed. A giant, wooden pole sticking diagonally into the air. Tilted, yet shooting straight up from what one would assume was a ship. Though, they can’t see most of it from behind the mountain’s ending where they stand. There’s too much greenery blocking their vision, not to mention another portion of brown cliffside that wraps around toward the mountain’s inlet. They’ll have to get a higher vantage point to see its presumable body, down below.

“Time to climb again,” Becky comments as she approaches the following ledge. “Yeah?” the word is questioned over her shoulder when the historian doesn’t respond, getting a tight-lipped smile, instead.

Truly, she knows it’s an unspoken proclamation of how exhausted they both are. How worn-out, and wishing to quit they are. Becky feels inclined to admit that this is the most labor she’s done within a single hunt, not to mention within the crunched time they’ve dealt with. Hell, they’re lucky they got to rest overnight. In retrospect, she’s sure their nightly festivities didn’t help their ache one bit, but she’d attribute most of their exertion to climbing and running. _Sprinting,_ moreover. Dodging explosions and flying bullets sent forth by their foes.

With that said, having to climb walls both stubby and otherwise sure beats being blown to smithereens down in a labyrinth of cavework. It sure beats being shot at, too. Something tells the redhead that her partner is aware of the trade-off, as she sees the relenting look in her eyes. The remnants of a whiny grin, as well, similar to an understanding pout. She’s surprised Charlotte isn’t crossing her arms and childishly storming across the stone beneath their boots, with the look she’s wearing. Only a matter of dramatics, though. Instead, the historian’s arms sway by her sides as she rolls her neck. A tiny crack is heard, muffled by Becky’s snicker.

“Positive thinking, remember?” the hunter quotes aloud, reminding Charlotte of her own words with a smirk on her face.

“Yeah, yeah.”

She cackles at the blonde’s outright distaste. Also at her eye-roll that speaks volumes, like she’d poke at Becky’s ribs if it wouldn’t hurt her too much. Playfully annoyed with her, in general.

Becky takes her healing, lower lip between her teeth as she braves the climb. It’s not a short ascend as if it’s a stair, however it’s not too strenuous, either. The worst part of the task is their elevation, being hundreds of feet above sea level. Using natural handholds to propel themselves even higher, along a skinny stretch of rock wall. It’s tedious, if they were to focus on their surroundings. Still, they try their hardest not to.

Going first, Becky’s hands reach for the bumps in the stone, placing the toes of her boots accordingly with other, rough grooves which she can use to lift herself upwards. Meanwhile, waiting her turn, Charlotte keeps her eyes on the wooden structure ahead. On how it creaks with the wind, whenever the subtle breeze filters through the land another time.

“Here,” a sweet, gesturing hand is reached down for Charlotte, and they hear another spurt of gunfire erupt in the background. “Think we’re getting closer.”

“What was your first clue?” she raises her eyebrows, getting a pointed look.

The other woman’s face drops in faux annoyance, keeping her reach out for Charlotte to take as the blonde climbs upwards along the wall before she’s able to accept it. When she does, they use their joint effort to clear the obstacle. Faces contorting, Charlotte pushes her toes against the stone and scrambles with dust trickling back onto the original layer of cliffside. The Irish woman grasps her hand tightly, making sure not to be too rough as she helps her partner onto the ledge with a bundle of strain on their muscles.

Once they’re eye level, Becky smiles at the woman in front of her. But, instantly, it falls short. Instead of returning the sentiment, Charlotte breathes out the resemblance of a surprised yet amazed gasp. There’s even a tiny twitch of her lips, like a smile that didn’t actually culminate. Her eyes go wide, staring past the hunter, and she automatically brushes her shoulder on the way by.

At this, Becky feels confused, but not too much. Not at all once she turns to watch Charlotte pass her, and ultimately gets her own look at the incredible scene in front of them.

As they slowly approach the ledge, a magnificent portrait is painted in front of them. Just behind the waning shrubbery of the mountainside, and just below the cliff they stand, is a wrecked ship. A single, standing ship with its mast tall, crow’s nest in tact, and the majority of its woodwork split down the middle. Even so, the vessel is undeniable. It’s absolutely immaculate, and it’s a ship. A _pirate_ ship. Complete with canons fallen into the center, into the sand, and portholes. Gold-encrusted linings, amazing craftsmanship, and an even more detailed history. A large-scale, olden-age galleon like the redhead had mused.

Truthfully, minutes ago, she wasn’t wholly confident in her remark. If her partner had questioned her theory, she wouldn’t have been able to explain herself. It was a quick guess, given on the spot. Nothing else to back it up but a single pole sticking into the air, looking similar to the likes of what she’d studied throughout her time as a treasure hunter. Brashly, the Irish woman figured it was wishful thinking, or her childish mind coming out to play.

Here, she gets that unbridled confirmation. She sees its tattered, red flags blowing in the same breeze that sways their hair. She sees the sunlight warming and paling its planks as it sits atop the inlet’s sand. She sees its captain’s quarters still standing. The wheel rolled away, yet not too far. It’s all there. Desks within, papers thrown about ━ from what she can see through one of its paneless windows. And, above all, she’s witnessing it, firsthand. That’s what’s most astounding about it.

A breath escapes her parted lips, and Charlotte begins to shake her head in slow dumbfoundedness. An equal revelation, of sorts.

“Holy. _Ship,”_ the historian punctuates, and Becky beams while whipping her head toward her partner.

“I’m finally rubbing off on ya, hm?”

Charlotte detects her smugness. It’s written across her features, and in the way she bounces her eyebrows. Becky looks her up and down, smirking hard as ocean eyes roll in self-directed annoyance. Not too legitimate, however. She can admit that, yeah, it’s fun to be silly. Especially with the woman next to her. Regardless, she can’t help but try to claw her way out of the newfound personality trait.

“Sasha’s not going to be happy,” it comes with a _“yikes”_ face, shaking her head as they begin to walk around the side of the mountain.

“Bayley will fix that,” the remark is mindless, not thinking much of it until she hears Charlotte’s snicker and single-worded response.

“Ew.”

The hunter stops in her tracks while turning around. There’s a giant, amused smirk on her face, eyes simultaneously narrowed in suspicion. Charlotte already presses her tongue to her inner cheek, knowing what Becky is going to say. Being proven correct once the Irish woman bats her back and forth.

“I just meant she keeps her happy, is all. I didn’t even hint at anything else,” brown eyes bore into the blonde’s temple once she faces away. “Where is your mind, Your Majesty?”

Her lips seal at the question, opting to not answer.

Turns out, she should’ve responded. In the ensuing seconds, Charlotte watches the light seemingly drain from Becky’s eyes. Not rapidly, and not on instant, but gradually as her expression lowers and so does her gaze. Her lips seal, as well, as if she’d gotten an immediate taste of regret, or something similar. The act of realizing oneself is having a good time when they shouldn’t be. It’s expressive in itself, and, to the historian, it’s also worrisome. Becky was literally just cracking jokes, yet, seconds later, she’s acting as if she’d gagged on the taste of tar. It’s misplaced, and it’s unnerving in the smallest of ways. A gnat flying at her skin. A tapping against her shoulder blade. She knows it’s not a wave of emotion she can ignore, either. It’s not an expression shown by the hunter that’s common, or at least imminent. This is pretty random, actually.

“What’s wrong?” she whispers, taking a single step closer. “Lost in your head again?” it’s not digging, nor is she teasing too much, but it’s a genuine question.

Becky can even tell that she means it, really. That she’s sincerely asking, especially based on how she gets lost in her thoughts quite often. And, in all honesty, yeah; she _is_ lost in her thoughts again. Talking so happily about Sasha and Bayley, it triggered the comprehension that, soon, they’ll be coming face to face with them again. They’ll be meeting up with the two women who Becky also betrayed, alongside Charlotte. The two people who were practically tossed to the wolves, even if unintended. Until now, the redhead has hardly entertained the thought of how they feel about her, since it’s all transpired. Are they furious with her? Are they okay? Are they simply sad? Will they be upset with Charlotte for forgiving her so easily?

On cue, her mouth falls open. Without instruction, possibly. No sounds come out, but she stares off into space while fiddling with her hands. Brushing her fingers back and forth in a form of distraction, hearing her knuckles hit together. Then, to the blonde’s surprise, Becky is outright with her feelings. She tries to be, at least.

“I…” again, her mouth hangs open, not sure how to continue as she stares off the cliffside. “What if… they’re mad at me?” the timidity in her question is strong, body language vulnerable. “We haven’t discussed that possibility, or that _probability,”_ brown eyes widen, “and we haven’t seen them since…”

The words trail off, but Charlotte understands. She licks her lips in thought.

“You’ll make it up to them, _first,_ by saving them.”

“I know, I know,” exhaustion is displayed in her tone, eyes closing for a moment. “What about after that, though? I might not have asked for them to be captured, but it’s still on me. No matter what anyone says. There’s so much that’s…” her throat tightens up, having to take a massive breath that hunches her over.

 _There’s so much that’s on her shoulders,_ is the finisher. There’s so much to blame her for, in a rougher form of the unspoken ━ yet clear ━ statement.

Ocean eyes examine her with a sadness clouding them. Charlotte then approaches, bending down and putting a gentle hand on her back. Becky’s hands ball into fists at her mouth, elbows digging into her thighs.

“It’s okay to feel guilty. It’d be insensitive of me to tell you to _not_ feel guilty. It’s not that easy,” the response is insightful, and the treasure hunter closes her eyes. “But the best you can do right now is end whatever’s happening down there. Then, once all of this over, we’ll discuss everything. The four of us. I’m sure they’d love to hear your side of things. I know _I_ did.”

“Yeah, but you know me, Charlotte,” Becky argues, weakly looking at her. “We already had history between us. We were already familiar. Them…” hesitation breaks her debate, jaw unhinged until her voice lowers to a mutter. “I was a stranger before this. And when a stranger fucks you over, it’s harder to see past that. There’s nothing to cradle the betrayal, or make you think of the good times because there _weren’t_ any good times.”

The other woman thinks about her perspective, listening thoroughly before tilting her head to the side. A breath exits her throat, knowing what she’s about to say might be taken in a bittersweet way. By all means, it _is_ bittersweet. It’s rough, and it’s likely a form of tough love that she doesn’t wish to hit Becky with, but it’s necessary. It’s the truth, first and foremost.  

“History doesn’t _only_ work in your favor, Becky. It’s not always a good thing.”

Like she imagined, the redhead turns to her. A frown appears on her face, being broken and heart-swelling. Like a kicked puppy. Charlotte already feels guilty, but she has to explain herself.

“Sure, it may make it easier to find judgements when you have a past with someone, but, at the same time, being betrayed by someone you’re close to cuts deeper.”

Becky swallows hard, realizing what she’s referring to. She faces away.

“Now, I can’t speak for them, but I can speak for myself,” Charlotte treads carefully. “It was hard as _hell_ trying to understand why you━someone I felt so strongly for━did what you did. Both back then and recently. It was hard as hell to put myself in your shoes, and try to accept what’s happened. It was hard as hell to fathom how terribly you hurt me,” she flashes her partner a tiny smile once she’s looked at, being sad yet healing. “But I eventually did, and I forgave you. It was the best decision I made, and I feel so much lighter.”

An apologetic gaze stares back at her, shining in the sunlight.

“I know you’re still sorry, Becks,” the historian speaks tenderly. “And I get you will be for a while, if not forever. To me, that means the least I can do is listen to your side of things and continuously understand how you operate.”

No response, but she watches the Irish woman stay attentive.

“They’re going to forgive you, if they haven’t already. You have me to help remind you of that, and help you earn their forgiveness. They’re smart people,” her eyebrows raise. “Neither of us have known Bayley for long, but I know she’s even more level-headed than Sasha is. And Sasha… well,” she muses aloud, “I think she can see your side of things more than any of us.”

“How do you figure?”

“You both think you have a lot to make up for when you don’t,” the following smile is wise. “It’s not up to me to change your mind or hers. It’s not up to Bayley, either, however…” she breathes out, brushing her hands along her partner’s back, “even though it’s not up to me, I can still try.”

Becky relaxes, rubbing her lips together before nervously looking at the historian, getting out a timid “Charlotte, I━”

“No, no,” it’s light, delicate, and the other woman’s mouth hangs open. “We’re going to have a _lot_ of time to talk when we get off this island.”

She begins to nod in agreement, getting out a hoarse “We are” that Charlotte grins at.

“Until then, you just have to be patient with them, okay?”

A breath is exhaled through her nostrils, shifting her jaw before humming in admission.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Now, are you gonna be focused enough to do this?” her hand gestures toward the sound of occasional gunfire flickering back and forth, echoing against the mountain’s exterior. “I can always━”

“Don’t even suggest I let you go into the fray alone, Charlotte,” the warning is low, though it comes with an incredulous grin.

“I wasn’t,” the blonde goes wide-eyed. “Do you really think I believe you’d even entertain that idea?” she asks, Becky’s shoulders easing downward. “I was going to say I could find them and get their attention, somehow. Without risking us being seen.”

“No,” her head-shake is slow, decisive as she stretches her arms out, then she forces a smile. “You’re right about… _everything._ I can start making amends by ending whatever’s going on down there. So, that’s what I’ll do. Even if that means being made.”

“Are you sure?” the hand formerly resting on Becky’s back moves to her shoulder, brushing her thumb against the rough fabric of her vest.

“‘Course, Char. I’m not lyin’,” she offers her a half-smile, looking obviously drained from the conversation.

Her fingers drag against Becky’s forearm, letting them linger before letting her hand fall to her side.

“Good, then,” Charlotte wears a tiny smirk, trying to get her partner’s optimistic attitude to resurface. “So, are you ready to go, or do we need to extend this intervention of yours?”

The Irish woman beams, laughing at the statement and shaking her head while lowering her chin.

“I’m fine, lass, really,” her throat clears. “Just a little mentally sore, is all. Once it’s over, I’ll be less of a mess.”

“Doubtful,” it’s said as she begins to walk away, chuckling when Becky scoffs behind her.

“Excuse me, I am _not_ always this heavy-hearted. I’ve never been, actually.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“What’s that mean? Sure, I’m sure.”

“Maybe you just never had someone to open up to,” the argument is knowing, somewhat matter-of-factly as she turns to see Becky staring at her. “Now, you do. Me.”

Her mouth opens, close to refuting her claim. Charlotte interrupts.

“And I’m not leaving, so you might as well get used to feeling exposed.”

A triumphant smile is shown in the redhead’s direction. Becky shifts her jaw, knowing the other woman has a valid claim. Ever since she shared her past story of being an orphan ━ plus what happened with Paige ━ in that cave, her mind has been on overdrive. Her body, enthralled in the idea of finally having someone to listen. Having someone to understand, and be real with her. Someone who doesn’t coddle her, but someone who keeps them at an equal level. A partner, for more than just treasure hunting.

By the look on Charlotte’s face, she’s picked up on those thoughts, too. Still, Becky will be damned if she gives away that information on a silver platter. Her eyes narrow, then she looks away while crossing her arms.

“God, and I thought _I_ was a pest,” the redhead mumbles, facing away from Charlotte who rolls her eyes with a laugh.

Although the blonde is close to extending their banter, she doesn’t have time to. Not when they hear another, massive explosion, and a following trail of gunfire. It’s even closer, as they continue to slink around the mountainside’s bend. And, once they turn onto the shortening stretch of cliff, they’re greeted by the source of the sound.

Granted, as it all comes into view, their sights are predominantly fixated on the massive, ship graveyard at the foot of the mountain. The lot of it spanning far off, as if it was a maze of ships. Bows smashed into sterns, crow’s nests toppled over onto each other, ripped and red flags covering cabins like they’re tarps ready to unveil something massive. Holes blown through many undersides, some ships half-submerged into the inlet’s water. The shallow shoreline that grows deeper within a brief amount of feet from the sand. From what they can tell, at least, judging by the way there are two pirate ships sunk deep into the water with only the tip of three masts poking from the surface.

A beautifully ominous portrait, they decide. An eerie setting, yet also magnificent in its own right. The amount of stories this place could tell is substantial, yet they remain unsure if they’d like to know of the pirates’ fate. If they were some of the poor saps that had their lives truncated within Avery’s tunnels, whether by someone else’s hand or by setting off one of the many death traps.

The flicker of explosions and gunfire ignites from behind one of the ships half-submerged into the water, puffs of smoke moving further toward the bay. Both women see the gist of it. The orange glow that flashes before dust shoots upward like a mushroom cloud. Then, they hear shouting. The running of men along wet sand, and the glimmer of a soldier’s clothing moves behind a wooden crate sat on the shore. Behind one of the various, wooden crates that likely toppled over the rails of the wrecked ships. Or, perhaps, they were set there with intention.

Despite their efforts, the women can’t crane their necks far enough to wholeheartedly see what’s happening. To see who’s shooting at whom, no matter their valiant guesses and strong inklings. There’s too much rubble in the way, and the cliff’s edge doesn’t allow for them to move any more forward. Now, they face air and soft shrubbery draping itself off the mountain’s exterior. Nothing substantial to hold onto, however.

“We’ll have to find a way to get closer,” Becky mumbles as they creep nearer to the edge of the cliff, letting themselves glance downwards.

Looking around, she notes the very scarce areas to which they can move. Since there’s nowhere to jump to, she turns her attention to the closest ship’s main platform. Much to her annoyance, it’s still too far of a drop. Even repelling down, they’d have a hard time staying hidden from the soldiers’ view ━ no matter how far away ━ and they may end up having to drop themselves a far distance, anyway. Her eyebrows furrow, viewing the surrounding area. Noting the various greenery and, ultimately, the smaller cliff below the one on which they currently linger.

“Onward and… downward?”

Charlotte snorts, “I don’t think it works like that.”

“It was an _attempt,_ okay?”

“Whatever you say, try-hard.”

She goes wide-eyed, spinning to face the historian.

“No, no,” a twisted smile is flashed, eyes then narrowing in challenge. “We are _not_ making that into a real thing. I have too many nicknames, as it is.”

Her mild distress earns a giggle, Becky making a face before turning back around. A costume of focus is put on. Forced onto her posture in hopes of being able to keep her thoughts away from her inner reflections and spur-the-moment desire of clasping onto the woman behind her. A sudden indulgence derived from gratitude when it comes to how easily Charlotte can clear her head, or at least calibrate it so they can move forward. Instead, Becky huffs out a strong breath before tackling the impending obstacle.

Lowering themselves onto the next slab of cliff doesn’t take much energy, nor does it take time. It’s a simple, two-minute act of shuffling themselves backwards to the edge of the top platform, stretching their bodies down so their boots can drop onto the following surface. Except, in spite of its easy nature ━ in spite of the action being usual, after days ━ Becky nearly stumbles forward after tripping over her own feet. She manages to catch herself, in the end. Charlotte doesn’t witness any of it, fortunately. Even so, the Irish woman shakes her head at herself.

Steadying themselves into a crouched position, they’re able to see how thick the foliage becomes as they’re closer to the ground. It reminds them of the island’s calmness, above anything. How it’s been the most constant form of reassurance that they’re still breathing. That they’re still around to see it. Also, it makes for good stealth as they can slink closer to where the explosions are erupting.

Opposing the lower mountain’s calmness, apparently the top-half of the mountain is more barren, more subjected to the sky’s deliverances whenever it storms. Perhaps the wind had scraped away years of shrubbery and wildlife, leaving a snapping-turtle-like cliff to appear less welcoming and more frightening. Becky remembers its appearance from where they stood above the treasury, and how its curved, top portion left it looking like a mouth waiting to swallow anyone who nears it. The bottom having jagged, teeth-like rocks set below the tip didn’t help the scary appearance, either.

In a way, the differences between an overview and a closer look make sense. Chopping the island up into tiny aspects can be a better way of going about things, and less overwhelming. Looking at it from further away, it’s not the most welcoming. It’s a warning sign, moreover. It’s intimidating.  

Luckily, as they duck their heads so they can’t be seen, the mountain’s shape is hardly decipherable. It’s less menacing, this way. She can focus more, and nudge her shoulder against Charlotte’s while their eyes otherwise roam the shore in front of them.

Their heads duck as they move another stretch of approximately fifty yards. Wandering close enough to round the final bend of thicket until they’re able to get a clear visual of everything up to the sea’s horizon. Immediately, they’re exposed to a war-zone. The image of multiple soldiers cluttering the sand, hiding behind various, wooden crates to take cover. Their fallen brethren littered around the area with blood pooling and sinking into the dusty gravel beneath their bodies. Gunsmoke pollutes the air, as well, and the two women can smell it where they keep unseen.

By all means, it’s an unnerving sight backgrounded by an assortment of wrecked ships. The most prominent one being set in the middle of each soldier, evidently being their target. The ship is halfway sunken into the water, split down the middle but intact by the withstanding structure of the cabin’s two, longest walls. If that were to break, the ship would wholly sink into the water. Long forgotten for ages to come.

Regardless, shots are flung against its boards. Dented into its sides, with some bullets lodged into the shiplap. Becky frowns, wondering where their targets are, or who━

“There they are,” there’s a tinge of hopefulness in Charlotte’s voice, her hand gingerly smacking the redhead’s arm.

Her forehead creases at the jab gifted to her arm, though not enough to derail her concentration. She merely pays closer attention, easing her head forward while shuffling as close as she can to the edge of the cliff without being spotted by the nearest cluster of men ━ these few simply standing around, keeping an eye out. Actually, Becky presumes they’re on watch for her and Charlotte. A precaution, likely ordered by Lacey and Rhea.

They kneel at the edge of the rock slab, matting down a patch of weeds.

“Damn, they really kicked the hornets’ nest, didn’t they?” the treasure hunter tries to keep the mood lightened, then pauses. “Or lit it on fire,” her eyebrows raise.

Roughly one-hundred yards away, Sasha and Bayley remain pinned down by soldiers on three of their four sides. Taking refuge behind a thick piece of wood atop one of the ships, being high enough to have the best vantage point against their foes. From the looks of it, as long as they don’t make any unnecessary shots, they should be able to stay safe. They should be able to keep themselves out of the direct fray, and the soldiers won’t be able to reach them. Sasha wouldn’t allow it, anyway, Becky and Charlotte think.

However, in retrospect, it doesn’t bode well if they’re running out of ammunition. They’re certainly outnumbered by a remaining dozen of men, and━

 _“That_ doesn’t look good,” Charlotte comments with an alarming amount of dread in her voice, Becky turning to her partner to see ocean eyes widened in nervousness.

Staring off to the furthest side of the shore, just atop a stubby plateau at the mountain’s base, is the begrudged look of a tactical truck being parked. The worst part: mounted on its top platform is an automatic turret. A turret that, within seconds, as their mouths fall open slightly, begins to pelt Sasha and Bayley’s safety board with hundreds of bullets within the shortest span.

Instantly, Becky recalls her brush-ups with these kinds of vehicles. How they’re controlled from the inside, and how ━ when set atop bulletproof, cargo vehicles ━ they’re very seldom destroyed by anything minimal. They’re hardly fazed by the likes of machine guns, or even grenades. It has to be harder. It has to be hit at a pinpointed location, and it has to be targeted fully.

Most of all, she knows the turret won’t stop shooting until it’s empty. Or until its target is dead.

She swallows hard.

“We have to help them. Like, _now.”_

It’s decisive and immediate. Like there’s no room for questions, or even solid planning. Even with the remark being so abrupt, so ready-to-risk-everything, the historian agrees. Who knows how long their friends have been dodging bullets sent flying by multiple men, not to mention the new toy parked at the mountain’s base. Judging by the scattered bodies around the shore, blood staining the sandy grains below them, they’d guess that it’s been a good amount of time. Sasha is great at shooting, no doubt, and having Bayley clearly helping her inexplicably sped up their time to breathe between shoot-outs, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that this has been going on for a while.

Additionally, the notion of soldiers waiting around and scoping out the scene right below where Becky and Charlotte stand… basically, it means that they’ve had time to get comfortable. Dare they guess that the army has been batting their friends back and forth like mice.

Brown eyes scan the area, mapping out their options. She looks closer to them, more so, getting ready to make a move without letting them be spotted above. She knows they have to take out the vehicle on their friends’ behalf. Sasha can handle the enemies running back and forth between their hiding spots, but there’s no way possible they’ll be able to shoot down the turret with a simple gun. Nor an assault rifle.

That’s when Becky sees it.

“RPG.”

There’s such childish astonishment, such fixation and interest lathering the acronym, that Charlotte frowns at her sudden change in attitude. The lack of desperation in the observation, yet enthrallment strewn within. She looks at Becky, seeing locked eyes staring at something where the soldiers below them loiter.

There, placed upon two, wooden crates, lies an RPG. The type of rocket launcher that shot down the tower, lengthy and ready to be loaded. Missiles sitting next to it in what appears to be a wine-bottle holder. All prepped, and willing to be fired. In some part of the blonde’s mind, she wonders why they haven’t used it to shoot down the women who slaughter their colleagues nearby. She wonders why they haven’t simply ended this retaliation, truly. Then again, she doesn’t really care. They’re still alive, and there’s a chance to save them once and for all.

Nevertheless, Becky’s total dedication to acquiring the weapon is daunting. Especially as it’s surrounded by four, tactical soldiers lined with grenades and a multitude of weapons. Knives on their belts, one with a wooden baton, handguns, and rifles. Bullet-proof vests guarding their torsos, and their helmets sat on a crate, feet away. Almost as if Lacey ordered her biggest muscle to guard their most hostile weapon, as a last resort. _One_ of their most hostile weapons, Charlotte presumes as the turret takes another, ten-second reload.

“Are you kidding?” she finally turns back to Becky, whisper-hissing the question. “Do you not see the soldiers surrounding it?”

“Are you saying you won’t cover me?” the bounced-back inquiry is quick and pointed, the historian’s lips parting, at first.

Admittedly, she knows it’s their best shot at getting their friends safe. Sooner rather than later, that is. Her mouth closes, swishing the volatile plan around in her mind. It takes another moment or two, eyes boring into the dirt on her jeans while she weighs the pros and cons. Then, she relents.

“I’m _saying_ you’re going to have to make sure you stay unseen this time,” the tiniest smile appears, being lecturing and smart ━ something that causes her partner’s head to tilt, as if she’s going to deny it until she’s interrupted. “You’re not known for being sneaky, so don’t even try that.”

Her mouth falls into a straight line.

Next to her, the blonde pulls out the handgun she’d scoured from one of the fallen soldiers, back in Avery’s mansion. She cocks it while eyeing the men below, making sure they haven’t been made, just yet. Once ready and held tightly in her palm, she looks at Becky, then takes the hunter’s bag. It’s thrown onto her own back, situated nicely, ultimately giving her partner a look.

“I’ll cover you,” her gaze holds a promise, keeping the diluted grin on her face. “Just keep your distance until I’m at a better position, okay? I’ll give you a signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

“We’ll know when it happens,” it’s rather blunt, causing Becky to snicker at her obvious play-as-they-go rules.

Giving her a nod, the Irish woman moves to get back to her feet so she can descend against the side of the mountain. She’s about to, at least.

Through quick motions and a leap of her heart, Charlotte tugs her back down to her knees with a pull on the woman’s wrist.

Becky frowns, although having the expression erased when their lips are connected quickly. It’s so sudden that the redhead doesn’t get the chance to enjoy it fully, nor is she able to reciprocate the elongated peck. She isn’t able to close her eyes, either.

Leaning away, the historian smiles weakly at her partner’s obvious, stunned reaction. It makes her want to pull Becky back in for another, chaste kiss, but she knows there’s not enough time. Quite frankly, she doesn’t trust herself to not delay more and more, either.

“Go,” she pushes on her shoulder, forcibly turning the other woman away. “Be safe,” another lecture is given, the redhead nodding in immediate reassurance.

Carefully, she does her best at being quiet. She does her best at not knocking stones off the side of the ledge, and at not grabbing onto a loose piece of rock that could potentially ruin her element of surprise. Her feet tread upon the moss of the mountainside, depending on the greenery to muffle her steps while lowering herself down to the sand. Within a descent of twenty or so feet, she’ll be able to shuffle along the grainy surface and take cover from whatever gets thrown at her. She’ll be able to find quick refuge behind one of the various boxes lining the area, and she’ll be able to brave the soldiers’ wandering eyes. All in hopes of making it to that promising RPG.

Around her, she hears the rapid-fire shots of the turret. Although it’s a dangerous sound that reminds her of the moment’s dire stakes, it also gives her strive to keep going. To get that explosive weapon, to end this for her friends. No matter what they may think of her, and even if they’re not grateful for the rescue.

Her teeth grit as she climbs lower, trying to extract herself from those tedious thoughts. Unfortunately, it creates her first mishap. As she’s too focused on the act of _refocusing,_ her eyes slam shut once she accidentally pulls a loose chunk of rock out from the mountain’s wall. For a moment, she juggles it in her hand while attempting to stay anchored without falling, however, in the end, the stone ends up dropping to the ground. Only feet behind the men, at that. A thump, embedding itself in the sand. She wouldn’t be surprised if they felt it in their soles, either.

Holding her breath, Becky waits for them to react. She waits for at least one of them to turn around with the look of confusion, a frown on his face, before glancing up to see her dangling from the cliffside. Truly, she’s not sure how she’d react to that. She’s not sure if she’d be forced to drop herself onto the sand before scurrying away with a thumping heart and a clenched throat, or if she’d even be _able_ to react, with their various weapons drawn in her direction.

Thankfully, their apparent discussions about nothing in particular seem to have stifled the rock’s thump into the sand. No reaction is given by the four men, and a puff of breath exits the treasure hunter’s mouth. Her hand reaches up to wipe her forehead, getting a thin layer of glistening sweat on her skin as she continues. A breeze comes, in the meantime, feeling her arms actually coated with sweat. Undoubtedly, a result of both anxiety and exertion from the climb. Nevertheless, she bares her teeth and ignores the numbness in her arms. The ache in her limbs. The roughness against her palms. All in mental reminder that this scenario pales in comparison to being shot at.

And, as long as Charlotte can take out those four perpetrators before Becky is spotted, she won’t have to deal with being targeted while running away with the RPG. While moving to get a clearer shot of the tactical truck ━ that damn turret, firing with ease ━ all in hopes of becoming reacquainted with their friends.

At least, that’s the initial plan and hopeful outcome. That’s the desire, and what she’s attempting to accomplish. What she asks of the universe, more importantly. Like usual, it doesn’t pan out, and the universe chuckles at Becky’s misfortune.

Because, as she takes another, routine step, she suddenly knows she’s fucked up. This time, her boot slips. Then, her hand follows. She can’t even scramble to pull herself back up, as one of her nails splits under the pressure. A gasp exits her throat, all while the one, saving handhold she’d been clinging to gives out.

In the blink of an eye, her body weight is pulled down the mountainside. Tumbling down in a puff of dust, pebbles shooting up from the ground below her as if she’s taking part in a cartoon. It’s a mess of grunted sounds and disturbance sliding down the gravely surface, all until she lands. Face down, nose pressed to the dark sand, her hands grip the unforgiving ground below her. She knows she’s acquired another one or two scratches along her arms, already feeling a burning against her skin.

“Fuck,” it’s groaned out, angrily so, not being able to stop the word from exiting her mouth.

And, for a second or two, her irritation at the world’s spite remains. She wants to slam her fists against the ground, and she wants to lie there. But, all too easily, she remembers what she was doing. She remembers how she was trying to be quiet. Most importantly: she remembers the four men she was trying to evade while scaling the mountain.

Lifting her eyes, the horror of realization all but chills her body. Turning her motions slow, chin raising so she can see in front of her.

Feet away, four pairs of boots are stood in a line. Their filthy toes speckled with dried dirt being prominent, and lying in wait for Becky to realize what’s happened. For her to realize that she’s being preyed upon. And, if she hadn’t known how much sound she made while falling down the cliffside, she’d still know who the boots belong to: that same, cluster of men that had been eyeing the premises. Scoping out the area, just in case Becky showed up. Clearly, she confirmed their suspicions. She confirmed Lacey’s suspicions, and Rhea’s. She just couldn’t stay away. She _had_ to continue on this silly path of redemption.

Her lips seal in distress, wanting to bow her head again. Wanting to press it to the damp sand and lie there in self-directed disappointment. Wanting to curse more, louder, while she’s at it. Obviously, things aren’t looking too hot for her right now. If that wasn’t enough, she’s not sure if she gave Charlotte the right amount of time to get situated, either.

Especially not when the Irish woman is being lifted by the underside of her forearm. Yanked upward by the unfriendly hand of a gruffy foe. Ultimately signifying that her time is up, and she’s failed.

“Look who we have here,” he snarks, smirking a bit too much.

Becky’s blood pressure rises when she hears their collective laugh. However, not as much as it does when one of the soldiers unclips a radio from their belt.

“Come in, General Rip━”

Violently, his head all but explodes. Decimated on contact, leaving his forehead a mess while his body falls backwards onto the ground in a heap. They all blink in a synchronized motion. Especially Becky whose face is speckled with blood, smelling the awful scent of iron mixed with gunpowder. She has to resist the urge to gag at it. At the same time, she’s too awestruck to formulate a proper reaction. For a moment, so are the three, remaining men.

That is, until one ushers out a flabbergasted “Shit…” that’s punctuated by all of the men equipping their guns in a solid clap.

In the process, Becky’s arm is let go of. Free of the harsh grip, left to fall back down by her side as she feels too spooked to take a measly step away from the scene. Her eyes mutually examine the area. First turning to the trees hanging off the mountainside, rustled by wildlife. Their guns whip toward that direction, the soldiers’ feet moving cautiously.

Another noise comes from their opposite side, being a creak against a nearby ship’s boards. Becky turns, as well, remaining careful of what she’s stepped into.

Again, a scuffling noise comes from a nearby cliff, and their guns are pointed upwards. Trying to find the source of the bullet that befell one of their fellow men. The source of the bullet that lodged between his eyes, being a pristine headshot of major, veteran-like proportions. Someone shot it with skill, with remarkable precision. A spark designed to light a fire beneath them. To send them into a scurry ━ a _panic_ ━ as it dropped one foe on sight.

Make that two.

A second, metallic and booming shot bounces off the stone surrounding them as another assailant is dropped in a similar fashion. Punctured straight through his skull, right above the temple. His rifle falls onto his body once he drops backwards, blood pooling against the sand quicker than the grains can soak it in. Becky sees it seeping toward her left boot, having to shuffle backwards while swallowing hard.

“Where the _fuck_ are these bullets coming from?” one of the two, remaining men growls, still pointing his gun this way and that.

Despite a minute passing, they still have no recollection of the bullets’ path. They’ve come too quickly, too instantaneously to be backwards-calculated. To be retraced, and to find the shooter that picks them off one by one. Even Becky looks around the inlet, wondering what’s happening. Wondering who it could be, while musing that those certainly aren’t the bullets of Charlotte’s firearm. They’re not the bullets of the automatic weapons that Sasha and Bayley had been sporting, either. Still, wishful thinking points to someone on her team. Actually, the right side of her mouth twitches into a tiny, caught-off-guard smile while thinking about it. Someone, somewhere, is keeping her alive. Whether it’s for now, or forever, she’s not sure. All she knows is that she needs to make it count.

So, slowly, Becky begins to back away from her two, lasting enemies. Evidently so, she thinks, once they notice what she’s doing.

“I don’t think so!”

The perpetrator further away from her speaks with a deep voice, ready to rush forward and catch her with his fellow man. Before he can do anything, he’s cut down by the same fate as his two, fallen colleagues. His head, exploding in the background as the redhead’s eyes are otherwise fixated on the remaining man who rushes toward her.

So much so, she stumbles while walking backwards. His shadow takes over her chilled, unmoving body, weapon pointed in her face as he darkly chuckles, “Fuck Ms. Evan’s orders. This is personal.”

His finger twitches on the trigger, ready to pull it before the Irish woman’s saving grace beats him to it. Like the three previous cases, his head implodes on contact with the bullet shooting through his skull. A clean entry, and a clean exit before it embeds itself in the sand. The man falls to his knees, glossy-eyed, before toppling forward. Becky just getting out of the way before his lifeless corpse collapses on top of her with blood trickling downwards.

Wide-eyed and mouth agape, she kicks sand across his back while rushing herself back to her feet. Immediately, shaking hands reach up and wipe the remnants of enemy blood away from her cheeks, using the backs of her wrists, afterwards. Frightful, now with a clear path to the RPG, she’s able to let her eyes study the area while slowly creeping toward the box. Nervously so, at that. Obviously coiled, with her arms tucked closely to her side, and her head ducked slightly. An unmistakable demeanor that she’s not sure it’s okay to move further into the open, yet.

But, once she turns her head just partly to the right, raising her chin a fraction higher, she has to do a double-take. When she does, a smile breaks out across her mouth.

Sure, so they weren’t the bullets of a simple handgun. They weren’t the bullets of an automatic rifle, either.

Atop the flattened portion of one of the ship’s cabins, a close distance from the cliff where she had left Charlotte behind, the blonde twitches two fingers at her. A fauxly innocent wave, as if she’s wondering how Becky is faring from such a clueless encounter. There’s a high-tech, sniper rifle set by her side. A growing, cocky grin on her face. Next to her, the redhead’s rope and grapple sway off the boards. A memorable scene, the hunter muses. She should’ve known Charlotte wouldn’t stop saving her ass.

Becky raises her hand to half-heartedly wave back, not being able to erase the amazed, wide-eyed smile that appears on her face, in the process. On cue, Charlotte nods sideways, telling the redhead to get the RPG. Time is wearing thin, their guess formulated by the turret’s newest round of ammunition.

“Oh, right,” her body twists in the rocket launcher’s direction, jogging over to the boxes. “Good going, Becks. Piss a girl like that off,” it’s rambled to herself with her eyebrows creased, feeling her way around the weapon. “Never again,” the finishing statement is mindless, turning her full attention to the RPG.

The last time she shot one of these ━ the _only_ time she shot one of these ━ was an act of desperation. An attempt to keep herself safe, no matter the consequences. If she was going to die, it would be knowing that she tried everything she could. Here, it’s no different. Except, in this instance, she has more knowledge about the item. She knows of it’s massive kick-back. How it’s much more complex in comparison to simple pistols and automatic weapons. It’s heavier, longer, and odd to handle. It’s more explosive, too, if that wasn’t a given.

With that said, it’s their best chance at getting the upper hand. She can still hear the vehicle firing at their friends in the distance. She can still hear the shouts of leftover men taunting Sasha and Bayley while scuffling along the sand. This is all or nothing, now.

_“I can start making amends by ending whatever’s going on down there. So, that’s what I’ll do.”_

Her eyes close tightly, then open harshly. She knows she has to do it.

A jagged breath exits her throat, eyebrows furrowing while her hands fumble along the assortment of missiles within their bin. Her lips part while going through the designated motions. While peeling open the weapon’s chamber, first and foremost. A single missile is slid into the barrel, making a metallic sound as it clunks into place. A compact echo within the cylinder, more like. Becky feels it against her hands, her heart jumping into her throat. With each step taken, she knows she’s closer to ending it for their friends.

Closing the chamber with a thick clasp, the redhead makes a contemplative face.

“God, I hope I remember how to use this.”

Ready RPG in hand, she clamors another, five feet closer. A close enough distance to the crate of extra missiles, just in case, but at a better angle in order to obtain a clear shot at the vehicle. The weapon’s back end is propped onto her shoulder, finger twitching against its trigger. There’s a small viewing glass on its side, as well, allowing her gaze to move the truck’s body into its red crosshairs. An undeniable shot, soon to be taken.

Holding her stance solidly, she takes it. Her finger pushes down on the stiff lever, launching the missile at the truck. Slamming it into the bulletproof casing, creating a fiery burst with sparks of metal that bounce off the truck’s hood. A dent forms, in the process, in addition to the vehicle’s hood popping off. It tumbles downwards away from the hill, resting in the sand while leaving the engine exposed. Unfortunately, that’s the gist of it. The turret stands tall against the blow, continuing to fire once it readjusts itself.

“Are you kidding me?” the Irish woman all but whines, even more so when she sees the remaining soldiers’ focus all switch to her instead of staying on Sasha and Bayley.

A blessing in disguise, actually. Once the head of every soldier whips in her direction, the mercenary uses the distraction to her advantage. Before the redhead can blink, the three, remaining perpetrators are collapsed onto the ground with dusty thuds and sand poofing up from where they lose their lives. All dropped accordingly, and allowing Becky to run back to the box in order to get another missile. An easy plan, on the surface.

So she thinks, at least.

Despite readying the RPG faster than in the last instance, she’s put under more pressure. As she stands at the box, keeping her motions and sweaty hands quick with reloading the chamber, her eyes lift to see something she didn’t account for.

In the distance, the turret’s focus begins to turn. Its neck, slowly moving in her direction with the bullets ceasing.

“Goddamnitfucking _shit,"_ her teeth pinch together, stinging her gums with the amount of force while practically slamming the RPG’s compartment shut.

Quickly, she jogs back to her former position. Planting her feet into the sand, and braving the oncoming shots as she’s set in the open. As there’s nowhere to hide from such a ghastly round of bullets, should they reach her. Wasting no time, the RPG’s crosshairs are framed around the vehicle. Shakily so, much to her distaste, with her heartbeat thumping in her ears. Her breath grows shallow, adrenaline pumping as the turret continues to rotate. To her right, the line of rapid-fire bullets begin to pepper the deck next to which she stands. Getting closer, and closer.

That is, until the second explosion ignites the whole truck. Blasting it at least four feet into the air before falling back down onto its popping tires. Resulting fire ignites, swooshing into the air with thick smoke already creating a smokescreen around the area. From where she stands, the scent of gasoline quickly permeates the fresh air. Tainting it. Usually, she’d feel sorry for ruining such a beautiful scene. Such a wonderful environment. Here, she can’t seem to find her remorse as she drops the RPG into the sand with limp arms. Her knees fall into the grain, as well, having to hunch over and breathe as the air falls silent again.

No more turret. No more gunfire. No more explosions.

“Becks,” the historian’s breathless voice rings in her ears, Becky quickly turning to see Charlotte standing atop the nearest ship’s deck, behind her. “You did it,” she sounds amazed, also impressed.

Locking away her mental and physical exhaustion, Becky pushes herself to her feet and speed-walks over to the base of the ship where her partner waits. Happily so, tilting her head to the side with a dopey grin.

“Thanks to your sniping, love,” the redhead wastes no time in giving Charlotte a pair of delicate hands as a way to bring her down to the sand. “That was _some_ signal,” she holds onto her waist, keeping her close.

“Told you I’d cover you,” she smirks, wiping away a few more smudges of blood from her partner’s cheek. “They really shouldn’t leave their stuff lying around━”

She’s cut off by a kiss. Gentle hands leaving her hips and cupping her cheeks, bringing her face downwards to seal the gap between them. The taste of desperation lingering on Becky’s tongue, being prominent and true. Charlotte falls into it, anyway. Kissing her back, and keeping their lips together for longer than the Irish woman initially intended. A breath-taking gesture that makes their hearts skip a beat while remembering the most recent events. There’s an underlying anguish within the redhead’s demeanor, as well. A prior uncertainty mixed with amazement, and sudden understanding. About what, Charlotte isn’t sure. However, it’s also shown in the way her expression is pained, once they depart. Then, a tiny chuckle exits the treasure hunter’s mouth.

“You’re so much better at shooting than I remember,” it’s exhaled, Charlotte giggling. “Gotta be honest, it’s a bit frightening.”

“Good thing I’m on your team, then,” she gives her another peck on the lips, patting the redhead’s abs while maneuvering around her. “Now, come on.”

This is it, Becky thinks. The moment of truth. The moment they find out whether or not she’s made enemies of those she’s considered friends. Strangers or not, before this journey. Okay, so she’d gone about things horribly. She’d bought her way into the lives of two people who knew little to nothing about her. Bayley, less than Sasha who, truly, knew things that weren’t all that flattering to Becky’s reputation. So, in Sasha’s mind, maybe the redhead’s betrayal was just reassurance in regards to how clever the hunter can be. How ready she is to throw anyone and everyone under the bus, just to get another treasure. Even if that’s not true, it sure as hell doesn’t look that good, on the surface.

And Bayley…

She swallows hard, thinking of the brunette. Before this, the navigator seemed to have held such enthusiasm in the idea of hunting for pirate treasure. She seemed so enthralled in doing something new with her life, and finding success somewhere more climactic than when she does movie stunts. And, at the beginning of this venture, she even had fun alongside Becky. She enjoyed herself, climbing and swinging. Showing off for the mercenary, from what Becky can remember. Until that dreaded storm ━ the sad reveal, before that ━ everything was going smoothly, and her view on Becky was undisturbed. Then, that changed. No matter how vehemently the redhead apologized, there’s no doubt that keeping vital information from Bayley stunted her positive thinking. Ruptured their relationship, in a way.

There’s no question that the brunette thought back on Becky’s initial, keep-away of information once they were captured by Lacey and company. There’s no question that she wondered if it would always be like this, and if the Irish woman could ever be trusted.

But, like Becky promised Charlotte, she’ll be patient. She’ll eventually get her turn at explaining herself to the two women, and she certainly _will_ explain herself to them. Whether or not they listen is another story.

A lump forms in her throat, having to shake her head. Beneath their boots, the sand crunches as they jog together. Moving quickly to find their friends within that half-submerged ship with a crack down its middle, held together by its two long, still-standing walls.

Around them, the air stays silent. It stays undisturbed by gunfire, though they don’t take their guard down. Who knows if any soldiers are lying in wait for their comfort levels to rise, only to pin them all down in a clump. Realistically, the only sounds they hear other than their moving feet come from the crackling fire engulfing the truck. The single thump of one of its doors letting go from the hinges, sliding down the stubby cliffside and onto the sand. A whistling brought on by the flames eating through its metal casing. Occasionally, rocks tumble down the cliffside, as well. An aftershock result of the explosion loosening surrounding stones, leaving them to take to gravity until ━ like the truck’s metal pieces ━ they’re stuck into the powdery portion of sand.

Nevertheless, Becky frowns when she hears no movement come from where their friends were previously shooting. At the silence, she wonders if they ran away. If they ran away from _her,_ more specifically. Her throat clenches in curiosity, also a mild dismay. Until her wheeling questions are answered, that is.

“You really _do_ know how to make an entrance.”

Sasha’s tone gets Becky’s attention, having to peer around another corner of the ship to find the mercenary peeking over the edge of the cabin’s roof. From what the redhead can tell, the woman’s face is void of emotion aside from the obvious over-exertion, the obvious bruising and a split lip, causing Becky’s lips to part. Causing her body to coil, as well. Charlotte notices, though doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have time to, either way. Not when Bayley’s hand is being presented to her in order to pull her onto the platform, and Sasha does the same for Becky, nearby. Slowly, a bit delayed, but surely.

“I try,” the Irish woman gives her a plastic smile, albeit additionally wincing as her muscles are tugged on with the motion.

Together again, there’s a moment of silence. Awkward silence, at that. Mixed with a moment of realization about the reunion. A moment of remembering and thinking about everything they’ve been through, both together and apart. Individually, each woman looks at each other, standing in a close circle and breathing heavily from the former gunfight. Few smiles are shared beneath the sunlight’s warmth, but they all express the same attitude of feeling relieved. The same attitude of knowing there’s a lot to talk about, too.

The historian turns to the redhead next to her, shoulders brushing together. She sees how Becky hardly looks at the other women, bashfully keeping away, and something tells her that Sasha and Bayley have noticed, as well. She decides to be the ice-breaker for at least some conversation, turning her attention to the women they haven’t seen in an action-packed day.

“You guys good?” it’s exhaled, or huffed out.

“‘Good’ being subjective,” the mercenary replies honestly, lifting her arm to show them her bandage ━ something that derails Becky’s already-teetering persona and relief of finding them.

“We’re alive, though,” Bayley adds, always being the face of optimism ━ bringing the redhead’s mind back, and giving her a tiny, watery smile. “You guys?”

“Also alive,” it’s more so answered through a trance, quietly so.

Even if it hadn’t been, Becky’s passive response is otherwise interrupted by Charlotte’s intense “What happened?” that stays directed at Sasha’s arm.

It’s rasped out with a large frown, shaken by the look of Sasha’s wound. And, as Becky gets a better glance at it, her stomach twists with a sourness. A regret, more than anything. Insane remorse. A need to let tears fall freely, along with apologies. She sees the split on the mercenary’s lip. The dried blood on Bayley’s forehead. The bruises along both women’s skin. The dirt, the dust, the soot. Everything. And it’s all _her_ doing.

_Fuck._

“Bullet grazed my arm,” Sasha shakes her head slightly, pretending it’s nothing.

“I tried wrapping it as much as I could, but I only had a cloth,” the brunette stares at the discolored fabric, Sasha giving her a semi-lecturing yet also pleading look.

“You did perfectly, thank you,” her voice is tender, said with sincere eyes before turning back to the others. “I consider this lucky. Lacey sure likes playing mind games.”

Their conversation fades out as Becky’s eyes bore into where the bullet skimmed her friend’s arm. Where blood settles against her muddy skin, previously dripping down from where the cloth is wrapped around her bicep. She notes its intensity, and how thick the paths of dried blood are. How prominent it all looks, turning a gross burgundy mixed with brown from caked dirt. Above anything, she notes how impractical yet necessary the rag is. How it’s probably keeping Sasha’s arm together, entirely. Keeping the blood coursing through her veins, keeping it from dripping further down her arm until she passes out from the loss.

Her throat grows sore as she becomes lost in her head. Unblinking, and zoned out while staring at the mercenary’s misfortune. Likewise, she keeps her mouth sealed shut as her group’s banter becomes a distant memory. Her mind way too locked in on an internal debate, as if she’s entered her own, impenetrable bubble of self-directed disdain.

Okay, so maybe “disdain” isn’t the best word for it, however it’s pretty damn close.

In summary, part of her rightfully believes the purple-haired woman when she claims that this is a lesser injury. That it could’ve been much worse, and that Lacey otherwise likes to play mind games. Becky remembers the evil blonde quite vividly, in that aspect. She remembers Lacey’s usual tendencies and uncaring attitude in regards to those who work for her ━ willingly or not. She remembers the moments where soldiers fell ill, and she instructed their colleagues to leave them behind. Worse: if they questioned her intentions, they wouldn’t be heard from again. The Irish woman still wonders what happened to those poor souls, though she could hazard a fair guess. So, yeah, Becky would theorize that her two friends getting away with so much as a deep scratch is the best case scenario. An ideal escape, ended with minimal bloodshed. In a way, that is. Minimal torture, before that. Aside from some mental scarring, at least.

On the other side of things, the dominant part of her mind refuses to let go of the notion that this is ultimately her fault. That the deep scratch that Sasha sports is her fault. The aforementioned, mental scarring, too. No matter what they encountered, it’s her doing. Like she’s addressed, she didn’t asked for them to be captured, and she trusts in Charlotte when she vehemently reinforces the idea, but it’s not like she _prevented_ it. It’s not like she made sure there would be no collateral damage for her decisions ━ her actions ━ even if it’s herself that she didn’t mind sacrificing.

If anything, she’s surprised Sasha and Bayley haven’t acknowledged the mistake, yet. She’s surprised they’ve willingly made eye contact with her, and she’s surprised that they’ve overall acted like everything is okay, so far. This is the first time they’ve met up since everything went down, since they were held at gunpoint, though they’ve merely been looking at her with reunited grins and relieved facades, stifled by awkward silence that, frankly, Becky has manufactured on her own.

There’s a reason for it, however. Because, honestly, their indications of not acknowledging what’s happened only makes her feel more guilty. It only makes her feel more confused, and more self-annoyed. Aware of her fuck-ups, and aware of everything she’s done to kill their trust in her.

Again, her throat begins to clench. A thumping felt in her neck, making her wish to raise her fingers and feel her pulse. It’s heavy, tightening her shoulders as she bows her head.

“There, up on the ship!”

Three of the four women whip their heads toward the voice’s source: a single soldier carefully easing himself down the mountainside, tripping slightly, from behind where the tactical vehicle rests with fire consuming its remains. Quickly, more men follow his lead with automatic weapons held in their arms. All getting ready to flood the area. To pin down the women, and end it.

“Reinforcements,” the mercenary’s eyes squint, an irritation about the words before she grabs Bayley’s hand. “Quick, we’ll escape through the ship.”

Charlotte gives her a nod, jogging three steps toward where the other two run deeper into the cabin. At least, she means to until she notices something isn’t right. Until she notices that she’s not being followed, like she should be. Hell, Becky isn’t even currently paying notice to them. The historian is surprised there isn’t a hole burnt into the floorboards, actually. Her forehead creases, waiting in place but desperate to get the redhead’s attention.

“Becks,” it’s more of a hushed statement than a question, and she’s automatically shown a pair of attentive eyes. “We have to go. Now.”

“Oh━um, right,” Becky nods hastily, snapping herself out of it.

Sasha and Bayley aren’t far ahead as they begin to run, Becky tailing Charlotte. Despite the treasure hunter’s hesitation, they’re approximately fifteen feet behind them, jogging down the stairs within the boat’s cabin and entering a large, dark area with minimal streams of light cascading bright circles on the ground.

Unfortunately, due to their previous spotting, the lone second of hesitation on Becky’s part was enough to foil their plan of getting away. Naturally, it proves the hunter’s point that one second of hesitation is too much.

“Oh, _shit,”_ Sasha worries, yanking Bayley forward. “RPG!” Charlotte’s eyes go wide. “Get down!”

Before they can formulate what’s happening, the igniting missile slams straight into the middle of the ship. Straight into the upright wall next to where they formerly ran.

As its force slams into the boat, they cover their heads as much as possible in hopes of keeping themselves free of the falling, wooden debris. Beneath them, the ship rocks against the sand, wiggling so far to its left that they believe it’ll roll with them inside. It doesn’t, though the inertia leans them back in the other direction as they sway side to side. As a result, Charlotte falls closer to Sasha and Bayley while Becky is sent rolling backwards, still keeping her hands guarding her head as crates topple around them.

The RPG’s initial shot isn’t the end of it. Immediately after the vessel stops moving, bullets pepper the outer walls with intent to break through. And, once they wear down some of the shiplap, they succeed in piercing the wooden boards. Multiple rounds shatter through thin planks and former holes blemishing the pirate ship, flying into the cabin and ricocheting off the inside where the women attempt to keep their distance from the soldiers’ aim.

“We have to keep running!” Becky yells through the smoke, finding her voice for the first time in minutes. “I’m right behind━”

A second, rocket-fueled blow cuts her sentence, causing every woman to fall forward onto the ground. Unlike in the last instance, the ship is too brittle to withstand such force. It’s too broken, and too dusty against the massive thump penetrating its exterior. Thus, the missile doesn’t just break the ship or crack it in half. It doesn’t shoot straight through the vessel as if it’s a cartoon. No, the ship’s fate is much worse, and what it reminds them of is something they didn’t plan for. Something they can’t prevent, either.

No one can decipher the sound of wood splitting in half, right down the middle. Not in time, at least, as they’re suddenly reminded that they’ve been running within one of the ships actually half-submerged in the inlet’s deeper waters. One of the ships that’s hovered atop the sea for longer than they’ve been alive.

And, as the RPG’s second shot crashes through the ship’s outer wall, it takes away the last form of support that was holding the split floor together. On contact, the floor becomes less cohesive, and it begins to pull apart. _Entirely._ With no room to run, the group of four is left to cling to whatever they can find, trying their hardest to avoid the foaming water that pulls the ship’s bottom half down. In the end, nothing works. No crate can save them, and no window frame is big enough to climb through. Not when they’re still being shot at, moreover.

Within seconds, they’re thrashed into the breaking floor one by one, and, within seconds, they meet the chilly, deep water.

Bubbles float upward as they’re all fallen into the light, teal liquid. Everyone paddling up to the surface in order to regroup, once they realize what’s happened. A round of light coughing is heard, especially from the redhead who sucked in the most water. At the sound, she’s pulled upward by her arm so she can get it out of her windpipe as much as possible, being helped to stay afloat. She squints hard at the burning feeling, shaking her wet hair free of her face before wiping her eyes of a similar sting.

Once she refocuses, eyes the same color as the water stare at her with delicacy. With tenderness, and a longing to see if she’s okay. The hand on the Irish woman’s arm gingerly lingers in the area, still helping her breathe until she’s finished emptying her mouth of stray water droplets.

“Thanks,” Becky whispers through deep exhales, gaze locked on Charlotte.

The historian frowns at her, ready to check on her psyche more than before. She can see the pain swimming through brown eyes. She can see her guilt, and her remorse, and everything weighing her down. As if everything they’d spoken about earlier while wandering through those tunnels and right before they put their plan into action has evaporated from her mind. As if the night they spent and the morning after has been erased by their mounting wounds while fighting to stay alive. As if it’s all becoming too much, and Becky is remembering that the world isn’t as kind as Charlotte is.

The blonde looks at her sadly, swaying her feet to stay surfaced within the sinking ship. She feels the splashing of falling, wooden pieces trickling into the water like sand in an hourglass as it disturbs the rushing water around them. Flowing into the space through holes in the ship’s outer walls. It doesn’t matter, though. Not when she’s trying to see if Becky is genuinely okay instead of simply _pretending_ to be.

Becky knows what she’s doing, too. Her mouth cracks open slightly, wanting to claim she’s alright and that it’s just a moment of weakness. _That,_ she can admit. She knows, if she tried to deny it, Charlotte would know otherwise. So, why bother?

But their time is wearing thin as they hear men’s voices travel through the surrounding beach, only feet away. The sounds of them discussing if the four could’ve survived such a ghastly shipwreck. The ship’s cabin collapsing onto the ground where they were. It makes them wonder how terrible the scene looks from the outside. If the vessel looks like it ate itself from the inside out, the outer walls folding inward and being sucked into the ocean. By all means, they’re sure it looks like a beaver’s dam from the outside. Boards toppled over and forming what looks like a dome of random, wooden pieces.

Unbeknownst to those men, it’s hollowed out on the inside. It’s leaving them room to breathe, and paddle through. All four of them, Sasha and Bayley keeping close together whereas Charlotte does the same with Becky.

Currently, they’re covered in shadows only disrupted by the sunlight flowing into the water from the bottom area. They can see kelp beneath their moving boots, sometimes seaweed getting attached to their soles and threatening to hold them hostage. Fish swim, as well, being in small schools and otherwise nothing larger that can’t live in less-deep waters. At second glance, the inlet’s water level isn’t as expansive as they assumed. Still, it’s not shallow, either.

Nevertheless, even with Lacey’s men wondering if they’re long gone, they have to keep moving. They have to use this unknowingness to keep themselves hidden. Sasha knows it more than any of them, having her gaze wander the outside and peek through a hole in the boat’s underside.

There, she sees a few soldiers hop into a Jeep. Driving themselves along the shore and around the mountain as the vehicle’s hum fades into the distance, its tire tracks remaining in the sand. Just like Lacey planned, she thinks, taking the “easier” route alongside the cliffs until she finds the treasure. A pinpointed location being on the map they’d found within Avery’s office ━ one that’s luckily polished, able to brush off the water that it’s submerged in, right now. _Hopefully._

“Guys,” Becky and Charlotte’s moment is broken by Sasha, the blonde’s chin raising to the ceiling in irritation. “We have to go,” an expression of lecture is shot in the historian’s direction, earning a nod. “Quietly, this time. They think we’re dead.”

Charlotte turns back to the Irish woman, being flashed a synthetic smile. So obviously forced that the historian breathes through her nostrils and brushes her partner's cheek lovingly before nodding toward where Sasha and Bayley swim. A signal that they should keep moving, no matter what.

Keeping to herself, Becky follows her group. Trying to be as quiet as possible while they dive under obstructions within the ship. With all the rubble cluttering the collapsed area, it’s difficult finding a clear path out of the shipwreck. Ideally, they’ll be able to find a path to take them into a shady or guarded area. A place to hide them in case any stragglers are waiting to make sure they’re dead. Even if they believe the four women were crushed beneath a pile of old ship, there’s no doubt they’ll be waiting around to make sure that’s the case.

A deep breath is taken before diving beneath another piece of rubble. Resurfacing, she wipes a thick strand of damp, crimson hair away from her forehead while pushing forward.

Even so, her thoughts from before don’t relent. They continue to bite at her. To pester her, and to grind on her resolve. Begging her to listen, to accept that she’s brought them into such a mess. Such a painstaking mess that could, in the end, kill them. God, she could get them killed, at any second.

Becky winces, then breathes out.

“Just ignore them, babygirl,” she talks to herself, channeling Paige’s voice.

In front of her, the blonde catches it.

“Hm?” she hums over her shoulder, seeing the treasure hunter move in tandem with them.

“Nothin’, was talking to myself,” it’s honest, shaking her head.

Charlotte seems to accept the answer, nodding in response before focusing on Sasha and Bayley. Becky tries to, as well, from where she swims behind all of them.

They move into a narrow hallway within the cabin, likely leading to a bedroom of sorts, back in the day. It’s bottomless, closed in, but brown eyes observe the way the water turns shallow toward her right side. Evidently, they’re closing in on the beach. Before that, there’s still one, large beam to sink below, and Sasha acknowledges it.

“Right,” it’s said to herself before instructing over her shoulder. “I see a shady patch of land ahead of here. We’ll have to dive under this beam and exit the cabin over there,” she points to a corner, making a splashing noise. “We’ll regroup outside.”

She doesn’t wait for anyone to respond to the directions. Quite frankly, it’s straightforward and Sasha seems ready to be out of the ocean, already. Becky would be inclined to agree, not enjoying the way her body stings from the salt attempting to stick to her wounds both fresh and old.

Bayley follows the mercenary without hesitation, leaving Charlotte to go next. Beforehand, she glances over her shoulder to see Becky give her an encouraging grin. A look of acceptance, and partial relent. Like she’s trying to keep on a front without denying that she’s hurting, like she’s promising that she’s still being patient ━ not only with Sasha and Bayley, but with herself.

The historian takes the sentiment and nods, then disappears beneath the subtle waves that her body creates as she submerges beneath sea level. Becky watches her leave, seeing her boots fade off into the color before they’re gone behind the wall.

Becky slams her eyes shut, tilting her chin toward the ceiling for a moment. Gathering her bearings before opting to join her friends on the free stretch of shaded sand. When she opens her eyes, a flicker of light bothers her pupils as it affects her peripherals. Streaming through a large gap in the wall, mostly beneath the surface of the waves. She hears splashing, being a calming effect as she takes a small breath.

Maybe she can do this, after all. She just has to focus, and, again, stay patient.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she━

A rough body wraps around hers while pinching her nose, swiftly yet casually taking her down beneath the water with a series of foamy splashes filling the air. Beneath the water, her nails claw at the person’s wrists as much as she can when sucked into the sea. Meanwhile, her eyes try to open, yet sting from the clouding sand as her feet kick against the sloping ground. She feels at a loss as they don’t let go, as they ragdoll her through the waves, especially once her body feels ten times as heavy when she’s pulled above sea level. That’s when she notices the water in her mouth, coughing it up like she’d done earlier while damp, crimson hair drapes against the dark sand. Staring at the ground, she tries shaking her head in attempts to figure out what happened, her limbs feeling weighted against the water in her clothing.

Disturbing her pathetic attempts to push herself onto her forearms, the same, unfriendly hand doesn’t allow her much time to catch her breath. And, quite frankly, “unfriendly” is an understatement. Without warning, a merciless claw-like hand drags her along the shore by a chunk of her hair. The hunter’s feet kicking against the sand in attempts to alleviate some of the pain. In attempts to push herself into her boots so she can at least have some control over where she’s being taken. Finally, she’s fully yanked upwards, chin raising as she’s forced to walk forward with someone by her side. Keeping her in place, angrily so.

“You…” Rhea seethes into her temple, “are a _real_ pain in the ass. You know that?” she tugs on her hair harder for good measure, moving her along.

“Yeah, kind of,” the Irish woman winces at the searing pain against her scalp, getting particularly worse when she back-talks before she’s shoved so hard that she falls face-first.

  


 

All three women surface from beneath the murky water of the inlet. Further from the main beach, yet on another portion of it. Able to see most of the tall mountain from where they float, including the flames of the blown-up tactical truck. The darkness, poofing into the air like a mushroom that has yet to even lessen against the breeze.

Feeling the sun on her skin, Sasha breathes out. Hands on her knees, hunched over while turning to see if Bayley is okay. A nod is given once the brunette feels a pair of inquisitive eyes on her, then they both turn to Charlotte. Except, when they’re expecting to see the historian looking just as disgruntled from the spur-the-moment swim, the blonde is actually running back toward where they resurfaced with her hands on her head. Gripping her skull, fingers bent and scratching her hair like she’s ready to pull it out.

“Char━”

“Did you see Becky resurface?” she whips around to the mercenary, Sasha’s mouth opening and closing with nothing coming out. “She was right behind me, Sasha. She was right fucking there.”

Her gaze travels the extent of the area, trying to look back into the ship from which they emerged. It’s quiet inside, from what they can tell. She can hardly hear any creaks, or cracks of wood. Nothing dropping into the water, either. And, through its holes where they can peer into the space, there’s no disturbance. Around them, birds cuckoo, and leaves rustle. A calming ambiance, but not enough to keep their stirring nerves at bay. Certainly not Charlotte’s.

“God, I knew she wasn’t completely focused,” it’s stressed, the historian’s mind on overdrive while pushing her fingers into her eyes. “I knew… _God.”_

“What do you mean?”

She swallows hard, looking like it bothers her throat when her teeth pinch together. An exhale is all but choked out, offering a vague explanation.

“She was nervous about seeing you two again. We didn’t know if you were pissed, or…” the blonde’s hand slaps to her thigh. “I know she’s made a lot of mistakes, especially while on this island, but━”

“No, you don’t have to apologize for her, Charlotte,” Sasha interrupts, kindly holding her hands out in surrender. “I know where you’re going with that, and it’s not necessary. We talked about it, and we’re not upset. We never were,” she gestures to herself and Bayley, eyes pleading. “And, _when_ we find Becky, we’ll be sure to tell her that, okay?”

Charlotte seals her lips, trying to nod. More specifically, trying not to cry. Her hands reach up and grip the straps of Becky’s bag, resting against her back. She holds onto it tightly, interrupted by Bayley’s next indication.

“Wait, up on that ledge,” it’s more of a stressed whisper.

They follow Bayley’s point, each of them moving as close as they can without leaving their hiding place.

Just past the blown-up truck, atop the cliff, Becky is being held at gunpoint. Arms raised by her shoulders, stiffened entirely, taken in by three men standing alongside the black, military-grade pick-up truck. Behind the treasure hunter stands Rhea, occasionally shoving their captive forward rather irately until Becky has her stomach pressed against the truck’s tailgate. Next, she’s forced to step up into it, then shoved down by the barrel of a rifle. Sitting in a corner, her gun is taken and thrown back to Rhea. Completely held hostage, and not fighting back. From what Charlotte can see, the woman also looks tired. Like, even if she had the chance, she still wouldn’t fight back.

Her heart swells, feeling defeated on Becky’s behalf. She’ll be damned if she gives up, though. Not when the Irish woman’s life is at stake. She doesn’t care what promise she made to her in regards to keeping herself safe. If Becky is in danger, Charlotte is going to fix that.

“We have to get her,” the historian says rather demandingly, legs already moving as they take her closer to the beach.

“And we _will,_ but wait up a minute,” Sasha stops her from leaving, the blonde’s teeth gritting at being halted. “Look, we overheard them say Lacey’s ordered a caravan to drive through an abandoned town they’ve found, a few miles from here. Probably the receiving docks of the colony,” she explains, Bayley giving the blonde a nod when they’re faced again. “They’re heading to the mountain’s center, but it’s not a short drive since they’re not going _through_ it. We have time, but we can’t take the jump before they get moving.”

Charlotte stares at her, looking pale. Looking devastated, more like. The brunette smiles sadly, then returns to her begging, optimistic state. Imploring the other woman to listen.

“We’re gonna get her, Char,” Bayley promises, turning her sad smile into a genuine one. “Count on it.”

They hear the truck’s engine roar from where they stand, their heads turning in its direction and seeing it drive off. Charlotte nearly whines at seeing Becky being driven away, feeling her heart fall into the pit of her stomach where it rests there. Outwardly, she breathes out through a crack in her lips, then turns back to her friends.

A partial, relenting nod is given in response to the brunette’s statement. To Sasha’s similar promise, as well. However, before she can verbally answer either of the women, their conversation is broken by a man’s voice coming from ten yards away. They keep still, confused as they hadn’t heard it before, with Sasha tip-toeing around the single blockade of cliffside that’s kept them from seeing the rest of the stonework where the truck took off.

Now, a single foe is left there. Radio in hand, talking into it while pacing the sand next to a leftover Jeep. A similar Jeep that Becky and Charlotte had driven in yesterday, being the same color of taupe with muddy patches covering its tires. Fully stocked with automatic weapons sticking out of a case in the back seat, as an added bonus.

Sasha smiles at the turn of events, that smile fading into a smirk as she twists back to Bayley and Charlotte. Deviousness taking over her posture, in the process.

“Three against one?”

“I like those odds,” Bayley raises her eyebrows, and Charlotte breathes out a sigh.

“What are we waiting for, then?” the blonde beckons for them to follow, all three of them running in a pack in strive to save the treasure hunter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We save two, we lose one. Smh...
> 
> So, here we finally see the cracks in Becky's resolve. She has an extremely guilty conscience for a lot of reasons, however she stirs up her emotions more than she understands. She's never been smart with tinkering/handling her emotions (which she's owned up to) but it goes way deeper than she even understands. So, her heart becomes heavy when her emotions oftentimes dictate her decisions. That'll be seriously evident within the next chapter. This, in a way, was (somehow) the calm before the storm with her. I can say her personality/outward emotions become very raw within the final few chapters. So much so, I sobbed while writing the big finale of everything. Yeet. (To be fair, I could've just been having an off day, but still). OH, and for those who haven't seen my post on Tumblr, the "big finale" of everything is officially resting at 23K-words long. Double yeet.
> 
> Now that we've got Sasha and Bayley back with Charlotte, it's time for all three ladies to display their best talents. They'll rescue Becky with style, that's for sure. For those who've been seeing how closely my story resembles the actual game, you may be a little thrown by the following chapter. It *is* something that's seen in Uncharted 4 (and other Uncharted games), but not on the island. You'll get it when you read it.
> 
> Side note: All in favor of Sniper Charlotte, say "Aye." Whew.
> 
> Okay, so, in the opening author's note, I explained that I updated early because I'm a wee bit ahead of schedule. In a mildly spoiling statement: I wrapped up the final, main-story chapter, and I've started saying my goodbyes to this story. I still have two additional chapters to write, however they're more so Charlynch-based to wrap up their individual story ("wrap up" being used loosely because they'll live on within this universe), so there's little to no Baysha/Four Horsewomen. Therefore, my heart feels heavy saying goodbye to those aspects. BUT, again, I'll save all of that mushy gunk for when I actually post those chapters.
> 
> For now, thanks again for joining me and giving this story a chance. I'll see you for the next chapter (I hope). And, let me just say... it's a chapter that truly makes you think and get a real feel for Becky's character, if you haven't been able to before. It's very action-packed, and we'll see everyone exposed. So, prepare!


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, if I wanted, I could pop out this chapter + two more within the same night.
> 
> I won't, and you'll have to wait, but... I'm all set. We're good to finish the main story. Wowwie.
> 
> Anyway, proceed. Keep in mind: it's a wild one.

TUES., 2:33 P.M.

* * *

Furious tires skid below them, interrupting the engine’s consistent hum that vibrates their bodies.

Actually, that may just be the bumpy, wrecked stone that they drive upon, Charlotte thinks. Her eyes flutter shut in mild dismay, feeling her stomach twist as she sits in the passenger’s seat. Wind in her hair, blowing it freely as she attempts to relax herself against the comfort of the sunlight-warmed leather. Behind her, however, Sasha doesn’t find as much leisure within the risky, sixty-miles-per-hour drive. In fact, she’s been quite vocal about it since they started on their mission to rescue the fourth member of their group. In this second, it’s no different.

“It’ll be a miracle if I don’t get sick by the end of this drive,” her voice even sounds disgusted, Bayley peering through the rearview mirror with a tiny smirk on her face.

“Driving through the town wasn’t _that_ bad,” the brunette’s argument is weak, and she knows it.

Even Charlotte gives her a look.

“You smashed through two walls and at least five food stalls,” Sasha points out, leaving the driver’s eyes to widen with her knuckles turning white against the wheel.

“They were breaking, anyway!”

The mercenary merely shakes her head in defeat. Then, she goes back to clawing at the backseat as they move around another bend in the road ahead of them. Currently, they’re traveling upon the transitional stretch of unkempt path between the abandoned, oceanside town, and the approaching thickness of jungle.

The historian looks over her shoulder within the topless Jeep, throwing a mental goodbye to the serenity known as a small, uncrowded town. A town they’d driven through in hopes of finding a single trace or tire track from the caravan that’s taken Becky as hostage. No avail. The aspects they _did_ find, on the other hand, provided a miniature sense of tranquility to each woman.

While Bayley focused on driving along the cobblestone streets ━ swerving past or directly through every obstacle set in their course, that is ━ Charlotte and Sasha took in the sights. The blonde, more than her partner. She noticed the extended docks shooting out onto the sea. Stretching far against the glistening water, basking in the sunlight. Waiting for their next bounty or mass of cargo to be received so it could then be transferred to the likes of Libertalia or New Devon. On a single, tiny peninsula jutting out from the less-cluttered side of the town, they discovered the resemblance of a lighthouse. A wooden tower, sticking straight into the air with a giant crow’s nest stationed on top. Overlooking the bay, the mountain, the ocean, the everything.

Overall, it was calming. Part of her wished to stick around and take in everything else the town had to offer, like the wooden carts formerly full of fruits and veggies, she’d imagine. The ones that Bayley, ultimately, drove through when she couldn’t fit around them. Frankly, Charlotte wanted to see more, and she wanted Becky to share in that moment with her. Those discoveries, and the simple idea of dangling their feet over the dock’s edge while consuming dreaded granola bars and unfiltered water. Daydreaming about cake, and the date they’ve vaguely planned. Even sharing in the moment with their two friends, hoping to watch how _their_ relationship unfolds.

In any other case, the historian would’ve smiled at the possibilities. She would’ve glanced in Becky’s direction, blushed, and pretended that it wasn’t a prominent thought in her mind. But, without the redhead anywhere to be found ━ not even a stray piece of evidence that the caravan passed through the town like Sasha said ━ Charlotte wasn’t able to find the strength or mindset to even grin. Her lips wouldn’t even twitch at the optimistic thoughts. At the daydreams, and the wishful thinking.

Quite honestly, she worries that Lacey had changed the plan. That Rhea had figured that, if Becky was alive, then they all were. In that case, she’d switch the route in hopes of throwing them off. In hopes of leading their group astray, so Becky could be finished once and for all. And, if that’s what’s happened, then what if they’re driving in the complete opposite direction than Becky? What if the caravan is already long gone, and they’re following the tracks of a ghost? Of _nothing?_

Her gaze drops to her lap, left nails clicking together while her right arm is draped outside the vehicle. Keeping a grasp on the Jeep’s door while Bayley drives at an unsettling speed.

Ahead of them, once she lifts her chin, she sees that they’re entering the forest. A cut-out, smoothened path of it. The track being wide, and made of dirt. The surface packed down with weeds matted to the ground, and otherwise trees lining their road. In fact, the jungle is so thick that they can hardly see anymore sunlight except for behind them, and the air turns chilly. Nerve-wracking, in its own way.

Still, with the cobblestone path now turned into dirt, Charlotte’s eyebrows furrow together in wonderance if it’ll be easier to decipher tracks amongst the ground. But, before she can attempt in seeing if she can make out anything when peering over the door, she notices the disguised ramp-like piece of path that sets the ground lower on the other side of its break. A mimicry of the first bridge she passed with Becky, set yards in front of the Jeep. This time, she nearly smiles at the memory.

Rather quickly, it’s erased by Bayley’s instruction that comes a hair too abruptly. Too abruptly in a sense that they can’t even ready themselves or do as told.

“Hold on!”

They’re already in mid-air before being able to suck in a nervous breath. Driving through the air with the engine puttering, wheels spinning freely. Neither Charlotte nor Sasha can even close their eyes, in the meantime, except for heavily yet hastily blinking in a sort of wince once the tires thump down. The blonde claws for the door, hanging on tight while shoving her back against the leather seat. Bayley, next to her, smiles devilishly and snickers once the tires handle the pressure without bursting ━ a worry that’s been constantly shared yet unvoiced by all women in the car.

Behind them, most of all, Sasha holds onto the lefthand side door for dear life, though she has less to grab onto when she’s unbuckled ━ something that Bayley had lectured her about, and will do again.

“Je _sus,_ Speedy. Slow down,” the mercenary tries via a laugh, though more so nervously.

“We won’t reach Becky by slowing down. Buckle up, if you’re so nervous.”

“No, I need a good angle if I have to shoot.”

“Curve,” Bayley says, tone unreadable and void of emotion.

“What━?”

The purple-haired woman topples over in the backseat when their driver jolts the wheel to the left to take them around a bend in the road. Charlotte keeps her eyes shut, for the time being, and Bayley snickers at both of them. Then, her tongue is bitten between her teeth. Having a blast with it, clearly.

“God, and I thought Becky’s driving was bad,” the blonde mutters beneath her breath, turning away from Bayley who cackles.

“Oh, she has nothing on me,” a finger is pointed in the historian’s direction. “This is one thing she’ll never beat me at. Climbing and swinging, we’ll see,” both hands are placed back on the wheel, rubbing against its leather casing.

“She kinda sucks at those, too, if I remember correctly,” Sasha intervenes. “Could probably count her scares, thinking back.”

Charlotte smiles big, bowing her head.

“Yeah, she’s not the most graceful,” it’s bashful, recalling their time together and the Irish woman’s endless mistakes when climbing, jumping, running, all of the above.

Hearing the happiness within her voice, Bayley turns to her passenger.

“You two good now?” the question is genuinely wondering ━ not digging, or teasing. “I know the beginning of this trip was rocky.”

“Mm, she’d love _that_ pun,” they hear the mercenary muse behind them.

The question incites more memories. More instances that stick profoundly within Charlotte’s mind, and have been keeping her spirits lifted throughout the past day. She remembers starting off on this journey, and being pissed at the redhead. _Wanting_ to be pissed her, more specifically. She recalls being upset with her heart for yearning to make amends, too. After that, everything happened so quickly. So _explosively,_ above anything. Everything that’s happened between her and Becky has gone so backwards, so questionably, yet she wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s become their thing. Their patent. This uniqueness about their relationship, and how they work together. It’s become vital for Charlotte’s happiness, and that’s something she’d own up to. She’s not walking away from Becky again. Never again.

“Yeah, we’re good,” her eventual answer is simple, afterwards rubbing her lips together in thought. “We’re great, actually. It’s just…” her mouth opens and closes.

It’s just that she still isn’t sure what they are. And they should’ve discussed it, while they could. Even if she’s not walking away from the treasure hunter, who’s to say this isn’t the end for them? Rhea taking Becky away… it didn’t look good.

Her throat clenches, eyes watering. She looks away from Bayley, and Sasha’s mouth falls into a frown as she stares at the blonde’s profile. The historian’s pain is radiating. Consuming the whole vehicle, and suffocating it. She feels the need to say something. In front of her, Bayley is also about to ask what she means.

They’re all interrupted, realistically, when a glimpse of multiple, black trucks flash through the waning trees in front of them. A fork in the jungle coming to fruition, joining the path they’ve been driving upon as both roads collide into a single way of travel.

Their Jeep slows down when they spot the mass of trucks, wishing to keep a modest distance so they’re able to harbor the element of surprise. The engine revs beneath their feet, gingerly shaking the vehicle as they creep forward. Sasha, in the backseat, is already in the process of cocking one of the automatic rifles that were kept in a military-grade chest where she sits. Something she smiled at like a kid on Christmas morning, rifling through the bucket to also find two, spare grenades, a pistol, and an empty water bottle. The latter earning an eye-roll.

“There’s Becks,” Charlotte whispers while standing in her seat, pointing to the final truck in the caravan.

“Don’t they know they should keep prisoners at the beginning of the line?” the mercenary shakes her head, waving a hand in the air. “Guess it works out better for us.”

“Okay, we’re going in,” Bayley puts the Jeep back into drive, not giving anyone a chance to sit back down before she steps on the gas and propels them forward.

Their speed increases gradually within a short amount of time. It takes them out of the jungle rather quickly, closing in on the caravan’s right side as it drives forward. From what they can already see, the path is bumpier than before, being full of potholes and divots. Also fallen tree trunks that make for speed bumps. Speed bumps that Bayley pays little to no attention to, that is, as Sasha grimaces whenever they hit one. In the passenger’s seat, Charlotte keeps her eyes locked onto the caravan as it drives yards ahead of them. They’re not too far behind ━ with Bayley’s driving, they’ll be neck and neck within the next minute ━ but, with the trees obstructing her view every now and again, she can’t get another solid glimpse of Becky. With the redhead pushed into the corner of the line’s final pick-up truck, it’ll be hard to find her without getting her attention. Because, once they get her attention, it’s safe to say they’ll be made by the other vehicles.

Bayley’s eyes flicker between their speed and the road ahead, knowing it’s not been an easy ride yet wanting to get the Irish woman as soon as they can. She understands that the road won’t last forever, and it’s already beginning to narrow. If they can’t get her before it closes into a single-laned, skinny path within the jungle, then she’s not sure what they’ll do to get her back. That notion isn’t shared with the historian, though. She wouldn’t dare usher that pessimism into the air. Not a chance.

“Shit, I think they noticed us,” the mercenary grits her teeth, steadying herself against the back of Bayley’s seat.

A bullet whizzes past her ear, Sasha going wide-eyed as their driver ducks her head.

“Yup, they definitely noticed us.”

Charlotte does the same in lowering her head, making sure to keep herself at the right angle to find Becky, as well.

Another shot is taken in Sasha’s direction. A man then sticks his gun out of the final truck’s passenger side window, using the mirror to shoot at their chasers. Sasha shoots his hand, the gun dropping from the window within seconds.

“Ha, bitch,” she laughs, Charlotte wishing to roll her eyes as Bayley begins to swerve the car, leading the mercenary to topple over. “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Did you want me to hit the goddamn pothole?”

“You hit everything else!”

“I see her again,” the blonde interrupts their debate, standing up in her seat with the wind messing her hair even further.

This time, the man in the car pulls out a handgun and shoots for the historian. She instinctively collapses into the seat, ducking heavily and nearly falling on top of Bayley. The brunette, herself, keeps two hands firmly on the wheel while trying to avoid the shots using the windshield as her only form of protection. Not her best idea, but keeping her eyes on the road is priority.

Sasha squints one eye while shooting back at him. Shattering the passenger side mirror, then the window. Tiny dents are created in the doorframe, peppering the black color but not penetrating the high-grade material. She grunts, reloading behind Bayley as the brunette’s foot pushes harder onto the gas.

“We have to get her before the road narrows,” she explains over the gunfire ringing in her ears, turning to Charlotte. “You’re going to have to convince her to jump to this Jeep when we have the right angle, okay? I know it’s a stretch, but━”

“Whatever it takes, I’ll do it,” Charlotte faces the other woman, getting a firm nod.

Finally, Sasha formulates a small, side-plan to take out the foe who won’t stop shooting at them. She supposes that the other vehicles are necessary for Lacey’s possible excavation, so she isn’t surprised that only the soldiers within their captive’s transport are shooting at her. They’re merely a precaution against letting Becky be rescued. After all, clearly Rhea isn’t as concerned as Lacey is when it comes to the redhead. That’s been obvious since the beginning. Sasha would go so far as to guess that Rhea is solely the blonde’s muscle for this trip, and that she’s not exactly willingly doing it.

She shakes her head at the ongoing theory, ducking behind Bayley’s seat and pretending she’s been shot down. Charlotte turns to her, frowning severely but not asking what she’s up to. Not when Sasha peeks around the brunette’s headrest to see the man leaning out of his window. A form of gloating where he checks to make sure he’s killed the group’s prime shooter.

Except, in this case, she was playing possum, and her inconspicuous shot goes right through his head.

On contact, she smirks as his lifeless torso hangs from the window. Swaying with the forceful, passing wind as blood smears against the truck’s door. A gruesome sight that’s contradicting of the emotion it gives them: relief.

But it’s too soon to breathe out, they figure. Because, once they’re finished with one perpetrator, more shots are coming from the truck that’s second-to-last in line. There goes the “precaution” theory, Sasha muses while rolling her eyes.

In retrospect, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. As they get closer to the Irish woman who’s now able to be seen despite her sitting in the corner of the truck’s bed, that’s when the shots start coming. They’re at a gaining distance, and now catch sight of a guard sitting in the bed with her. Holding her at gunpoint, and making sure she’s not trying anything. Her eyes bore into him as the truck sways, her lips sealed with her chest rising and falling at a solid rate.

Charlotte watches it all, feeling her blood pressure spiking as she dodges another bullet. It flies overhead, and Sasha finds its source. She shoots past the windshield’s top frame, aiming for the truck in front of Becky’s.

Meanwhile, the redhead hears the carnage, but doesn’t see anything. She listens to the sound of the radio going off within her truck’s main compartment, and how the soldier speaks into it with a stressed tone. Telling Rhea, up front, how his partner has already been taken out by the mercenary.

 _“Just keep driving,”_ Rhea replies, sounding on edge yet determined. _“Ms. Evans wants all of you here, immediately. We’ll get Lynch one way or another.”_

Becky’s eyes roam the area, watching the trees fade off into the distance behind them. A blur of green, adjacent to clear blue sky above her. Then, her view is disrupted by a taupe color. A topless Jeep that resembles the one she’d driven in with Charlotte. It brings back memories, however they’re not shown in her expression. She doesn’t smile, nor does she truly react to the idea that, now, they’re driving alongside the truck she’s in. She sees her friends, Charlotte standing in the passenger side with a desperate look on her face. A fierce look, at that. Sasha similarly crouches in the back seat of the Jeep. First, they can’t hear the sneaking vehicle over the roar of their own truck’s engine. Then, the mercenary takes another shot at the truck ahead of them, killing the second soldier.

At the sound, the foe that’d been keeping an eye on the treasure hunter turns to the Jeep driving alongside them, previously unnoticed. He frowns curiously, then angrily, instantly standing up and readying his gun to shoot at the mercenary.

“No way━”

His words turn into a shriek when Becky unwarningly gets up and shoves him over the back of the vehicle, letting his body crash to the ground and spin lifelessly until it stops in a ditch alongside the road. He’s long gone, leaving her to stand motionless in the back. Closer to the wall of the truck’s bed, looking into her friends’ Jeep.

“You know what you have to do,” the blonde can see the wheels turning behind brown eyes, Becky looking insanely nervous and apprehensive with her mouth hanging open. “Come on.”

Her head begins to shake slightly, eyes moving from the quickness of the ground below them ━ between the two vehicles, being a gap of approximately seven feet ━ back to Charlotte's pleading features. It’s too much of a guessing game, she thinks. Her odds of making the jump are fifty-fifty, as it’s too large of a distance considering how fast the vehicles are moving. If she misses, she could end up with the same fate as the soldier who she’d thrown from the truck, a minute ago. If she stays in the truck, she’ll be taken to Lacey. At least, that way, she can end things before facing her demise. There are just too many outcomes for both scenarios, and her eyes slam shut while gripping the black side of the truck.

In the Jeep, Sasha stares ahead at the path. The trees are starting to close in, little by little. The jungle, becoming thicker with every mile they drive upon. With every curve they take, too. There’s no doubt that they’re nearing the end of the wider path, and it’ll soon become an area that they can’t drive alongside the trucks. It’s now or never. Especially given in the way the road’s sides begin to slope downwards, as if they’re driving along the lengthy peak of a hill. A dirt bridge, with shrubbery on each side of it. If they were to simply drift off to either side, they’d skid down a decline of many feet. A distance that gradually grows with the road slimming. Two, major defects in the path becoming more and more clear.

The mercenary swallows hard, not straying away from warning everyone. From warning _Becky,_ more than anyone else.

“Becky, we’re running out of clearance,” it’s a bit more forceful than she intended, although laced with worry and a beggingness that she listens to Charlotte.

“We’ll catch you,” the blonde tries again, eyes shining. “I _promise._ Bayley has it under control.”

At the way Charlotte appears, so fragile and imploring of her to take the chance, she remembers the times she’d asked such ghastly things of the blonde. Actually, sometimes, she didn’t even ask. She simply expected the historian to go along with her cockamamey plans without question. She made her take risks, even when it took a toll on Charlotte’s heart and psyche. In many ways, she owes it to her ━ to all of them, come to think of it ━ to be the one taking a risk she doesn’t particularly feel fond of. One that could potentially ruin her body, or her mental health. It’s not exactly the notion of getting even, however the thought that she owes it to them to make their lives easier. To pay them back for everything they’ve endured.

So, slowly, Becky begins to nod. There’s a permanent glint of nervousness in her eyes, the glimmer of knowing she possibly might not make the jump. A spurt of doubt, clouding her features. Her teeth nibble at her lower lip, and she goes to put her right foot onto the truck’s outer wall while holding onto the cabin of it. Meanwhile, her knee shakes as she goes to prop herself up. Getting ready to launch her body to the Jeep so she can ━ hopefully ━ grab ahold of Sasha’s hand, or Charlotte’s, or some part of the vehicle in order to secure herself. Who knows where she’ll land, but she knows the historian meant her promise. She’ll be caught. Somehow, someway, she’ll be caught, and she’ll be safe.

A lump forms in her throat as she’s about to move her left boot onto the frame, as well. Charlotte gives her a tiny, encouraging smile despite the hair obstructing her view, waiting for Becky to follow through. Sasha still keeps her eyes locked on the road, and Bayley makes sure she drives closely and deliberately. Making sure she doesn’t hit any unnecessary bumps, or stray too far from the truck. She refuses to make a bigger gap for Becky to clear.

Unfortunately, the redhead’s progress is stunted when the driver of the truck peeks through his unafflicted windows to see what’s happening. To see that his captive is close to escaping with the Jeep that’s seemingly caught up to his vehicle. His partner still rests lifelessly with his head swaying out the window, blood splattered onto part of the roof inside the truck. He grits his teeth at seeing the Irish woman nearly free, intentionally swerving the vehicle so hard that she falls backwards onto her butt.

That’s the nail in her coffin of apprehension, letting it rest. She refuses to jump. She can’t. She can’t even try, no matter how much they beg.

When she resumes leaning against the wall, bowing against it with her grip tight against the side, her head shakes with her mouth opening to suck in a sharp breath. Simultaneously giving Charlotte a thousand and more apologies in her eyes.

“It’s too risky.”

The historian tilts her head to the side, asking, “What’s one more risk?” with the same, pleading tone.

Becky’s mouth opens again, eyes watering.

“I…” she doesn’t know what to say, gaze fixated on the moving ground between the vehicles.

It’s a sign that she’s no closer to changing her mind. Charlotte doesn’t know what to do as she stands in the passenger seat. She can see their chances slipping away, and her heart beats fast within her chest. Sasha refuses to let this be the end, though. Instead, she leans closer to Bayley, and makes a demand that was previously obvious, but now dire.

“Bayley, you’re either going to need to get closer, or stop that truck.”

The brunette looks at the black pick-up truck, knowing that, if they get closer, they could be in a position where they can’t protect themselves. They could be driven off the road, or━

Its obviousness smacks her in the face, keeping her foot on the gas pedal without jumping too high via enthusiasm.

“Okay, I’m going to try something,” she keeps her voice loud enough for Charlotte and Sasha to both hear. “Tell Becky to hang tight, but get ready to jump,” the instruction is given to the blonde, the driver otherwise remaining focused on what she’s about to do.

The historian nods, then looks at Becky again. She snaps in the woman’s direction, getting her eyes to zone out of the moving ground. The redhead looks at her attentively, appearing overly vulnerable yet needing another way to survive.

“Bayley said hang tight!” she shouts, and the woman nods with her hands grasping onto the truck while closing her eyes. “Be ready to jump, though!”

At this, Becky gives her a weak, shaky laugh.

“Well, which is it?” the question is thrown back in misplaced comedy, and Charlotte wants to laugh but can’t find the wherewithal to.

“You guys hold onto something, too,” the driver peers through the rearview mirror, mostly talking to Sasha who relents with a nod, buckling up.

Next to her, the historian refuses to take her gaze off Becky. Bayley wouldn’t ask her to do so, anyway. Regardless, she notes where Charlotte’s hands are, and if she’s holding onto the Jeep. When she sees that the woman is secure within the vehicle, she puts her plan into action.

Edging closer to the military-grade truck, she bumps its side. So much that Becky teeters with the force, but not enough to fall over. Her stomach still clenches, however, and so does Charlotte’s when she sees Becky sway. Bayley purses her lips, drifting away from the truck before, this time, forcibly ramming into its side so hard that it scuffles outwards a whole foot or two.

They’re completely side to side with it now, matching its quickening speed. Window to window, Bayley peers past the lifeless body to see the truck’s driver accepting the challenge. He grits his teeth and eases closer to the Jeep, bumping them just as hard as Bayley keeps a firm handle on the wheel. It reminds her of something she’d do on the racetrack when daring her coworkers. A tactic she’s taken part in repeatedly when testing a vehicle’s ability to withstand pressure. To test a driver’s pressure, as well, and how far they’ll go.

“That’s it…” the brunette talks to the truck as if it’s a snake. “Expose yourself.”

Again, clenching her jaw, she nudges into its side. A clunk is heard, then a scraping noise, shaking the Jeep while Sasha keeps on a severe _“yikes”_ face. Her nails dig into the seatbelt, and Charlotte watches the road ahead of them to make sure they still have time. Their path is running out, and, finally, Bayley acknowledges it. Partly, at least.

“Charlotte, get on the hood,” the instruction is sudden, void of emotion as Bayley’s fingers flex against the wheel.

“What?” Sasha squeaks, leaning forward so she can stick her head between the two, front seats. “Are you nuts, Bay?”

“I know what I’m doing, Sash, please,” she yells backwards, getting the mercenary to fall silent.

“Get ready to catch Becky, then tumble-roll to the left,” her directions are given to Charlotte, being unwavering and spoken with importance. “He’s trying to play, and I’m going to bait him into doing just that.”

Internally, Charlotte thanks the combined engines’ roar for not letting Becky hear the plan. She’s not sure the redhead would cooperate if she heard, especially if she caught onto the idea of Charlotte needing to stand on the Jeep’s hood. Exposed completely, and ready to be bumped off. Shot off, if any of the other soldiers noticed. Outwardly, without hesitation, she does as instructed.

Her boots kick off the Jeep’s passenger seat, and she jumps over the windshield’s frame. Hanging onto it, her feet slip every now and then against the metal hood, having to hold onto the window using her left hand. She’s cautious where she steps and where she leans, not wanting to block Bayley’s view of the road but needing to be as close as possible to Becky in order to successfully catch her. She feels her feet vibrating beneath where she stands, and she has to remind herself not to look at the moving environment surrounding her. Instead, she chooses to focus, brushing wild hair from her face.

Suddenly, Becky hears a clunking noise and turns to see what’s happening. She turns to see Charlotte standing on the hood of the Jeep, and her eyes widen. But, then again, she calculates what Bayley is trying to do. Especially once the brunette guides the Jeep into the truck’s side, bumping it again as the redhead sways in the back, and Charlotte winces where she attempts to hang on.

On contact, the truck driver notices the historian’s placement, and he finds it entertaining. A target for his next move, more specifically. Laughing to himself, the truck’s engine revs, and Becky knows what happens next.

With no time to argue, the Irish woman readies herself to jump to Charlotte whose right hand reaches out at the very, last second.

As the truck attempts to push their Jeep off the road once and for all with a heavy hit, Bayley slams on the breaks.

In a compact train of events, Becky jumps to the hood with Charlotte who wraps their bodies and tumbles to the instructed area, both women rolling quickly and painfully down the hill. Meanwhile, the truck that’d been toying with their group is sent flying in the opposite direction, ending up with a death as explosive as when Becky was using the RPG. Fire shoots up into the air as the ground quakes, blasting into the other hill as it ends up tipped onto its head with the driver obviously passing inside of it.

Now fallen into a stretch of grass before the thicker trees at the bottom of the hill, Becky and Charlotte flop onto their backs once they’re untangled. They’d landed feet away from each other, once they stopped rolling together with dirt and chunks of weeds flying up into the air. In the distance, their friends’ Jeep stalls while the engine putters, stopped at the very edge of the widened path. They’d just made it, in the knick of time, keeping straight to avoid hitting the two, tumbling women.

The caravan is long gone, fading into the distance as the air falls silent.

Stirring slightly, Becky gets a feel for her limbs with a tiny groan pulled from her throat. She rolls her neck when her head pounds, but she doesn’t feel too bad considering the circumstances. There is a twig embedded in her skin, though, and she yanks it out before throwing it elsewhere. Along her forearms and cheek, miniature scrapes are felt bleeding. A coolness chilling her skin when the breeze comes by, signifying the liquid dripping out of small punctures. Again: nothing too furious, and she’s thankful for it. She’s still breathing, after all.

Moving to sit up, she listens to the cuckooing of the birds that have hardly a clue of what just transpired. She looks around, vision blurred for the moment. Until it’s totally disrupted when a pair of delicate hands are on her cheeks, cupping them tenderly.

“Are you okay?” the blonde comes into view, their proximity close as ocean eyes scan her face for wounds.

An exasperated laugh answers her question, Charlotte frowning until Becky verbalizes her first and loudest thought.

“I hate this fucking island.”

Her laugh, though strained, is one of the most endearing sounds she’s heard in a while. One of the most relieving sights, too, to see the redhead grinning in exhaustion yet with life coursing through her veins. Charlotte giggles at her outright distress, laughing hard while leaning forward to bury her face into Becky’s filthy hair. Unwrapping herself from the other woman and backing up, she sees Bayley and Sasha running down the hill.

They also wear relieved smiles, laughing quietly at seeing their friends a mess on the ground. That’s when Becky’s mild amusement stops. She glances up at the two other women, her posture slouching as remorse clouds her judgement again. Charlotte notices, bringing Becky to her feet so they’re all standing close.

“It’s good to have you back, Becks,” Bayley is first to comment, smiling genuinely.

Again, the redhead swallows hard but attempts to force a smile. Her attention turns to Sasha, the mercenary giving her a tiny knuckle-touch to the arm.

“What Softy said,” she smirks, and Becky knows it’s her form of being sentimental.

Even so, she wishes to say something of her own. To display her apologies blatantly, and start their conversation here. Even if they wouldn’t be able to end it right now, she still believes it’s best to get it over with. To say she’s sorry for what she’s put them through, and that she’ll make it up to them. However, with her tongue’s hesitance to speak her thoughts, she doesn’t get a chance to say _anything_ before the brunette is putting her hands on her hips.

“We better go after them,” she refers to the caravan, gesturing in their direction. “It’ll be easier to cut through the jungle, though. The Jeep would slow us down, funny enough.”

“Yeah, funny enough at your speed,” Sasha teases.

In a collective agreement, three of the four women begin to crunch along the matted grass. Trudging up the hill in hopes of crossing through the forest in order to make it to the mountain’s edge. Their last member, on the other hand, lingers in place. Becky looking hesitant about it, with her lips sealed and eyes delicate. Charlotte notices before anyone else, turning around. Sasha follows suit, and she voices what they’re all thinking.

“What is it?”

A breath is taken through her nostrils, nibbling at her lower lip before her posture borderline deflates at being stared at. They’re all facing her, waiting for an answer. Cautiously, she airs her grievances. Her apologies, in a way.

“You guys have risked so much for me,” Becky starts, a crack in her voice. “And, when I assembled this team, I knew it’d be risky, but _this…”_ an exhale breaks her statement. “Someone important once told me nothing’s worth risking your life over,” she glances at Charlotte, the blonde bowing her head. “She was right. I may not have thought that before, but…”

The statement trails off, Bayley frowning while breaking the hunter’s thoughts.

“We’re still here because we _want_ to be here.”

“You’re still here because of _me,”_ the argument is clawed-for, somewhat desperate as her arms sway by her sides. “Because I roped you into this. I tricked you into thinking that this place will bring great things when it’s been nothing but tragedy.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” Sasha gives the redhead a smile. “We’re not here for you so you can get that treasure. I, personally, haven’t given a real shit about it since we met that Lacey bitch. The gold’s just an added bonus, by now.”

“We’re here for you because we’re a team, and we care about you,” Charlotte adds. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Yeah, but I still don’t see why,” the Irish woman shakes her head, giving them a shrug.

“We just risked _our_ asses riding in a swerving vehicle driven by a maniac━”

“Hey!” Bayley interrupts the mercenary’s statement.

“━so we could save _your_ ass. So we could help you,” Sasha emphasizes the fact. “We’re not letting you throw that away now.”

There’s a pause. Becky breathes heavily, individually looking at each woman with her arguments dwindling between them. The historian appears most concerned, still wearing the world’s tiniest smile as she silently nudges her partner into a better mindset. Next to the blonde, Sasha reaches behind her and pulls out a spare pistol, approaching Becky and presenting the barrel so the redhead can take it. She also wears a smile, giving the Irish woman her own form of encouragement while Bayley tilts her head to the side.

Reluctantly, Becky takes the gun, licking her lips in thought. Then, she stares at the firearm. Holding it in her bowled palms without wrapping her fingers around it. As if it’s a foreign object, even after everything. Her gaze soon lifts from it, looking between Sasha and Bayley.

“I owe you so many explanations,” her voice falls to a whisper, being broken and apologetic, in itself.

“Yeah,” behind Sasha, the brunette admits with an accepting nod paired with a sad smile, “but we can hear them later.”

“Becky, we get it,” the mercenary expresses, the grin dropped from her face. “It was a shitty surprise, but… we get it. That’s your last pass, though,” she warns with a stern finger-point, Becky raising her hands in surrender.

“I don’t want another pass,” she admits. “And I’ll answer anything you ask me once we get back home,” there’s a sincerity in her eyes, still looking between the two. “Total honesty.”

Charlotte gives the redhead a smile, ducking her head while shifting her fingers against the backpack’s straps. Untangling them slightly, as the bag had become disoriented while they tumbled down the hill, moments ago.

“Besides,” Sasha puts her hands on her hips while raising her eyebrows, “Lacey would’ve found me sooner or later, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” the historian frowns, being turned to.

“Have you noticed anything… _familiar_ about her?”

“No,” the reply is simple, lips pursed, but she doesn’t bother thinking about it, either.

“Well,” a tiny laugh slips from between Sasha’s lips, “she’s our old pal Lazarević’s daughter.”

The information is like a punch in the gut to Becky. She feels sick, clenching her jaw and putting the gun into her belt’s holster. It’s not that she ever came into contact with the man, but anyone bold enough to threaten Charlotte is on the top of her hit-list. By all means, she’s glad he’s dead. Then again, she never got a chance to grant herself some payback for what he’s put the blonde through. She knows Charlotte wouldn’t let her get that payback, anyway, but it’s something to think about.

Still, with the information in the air, she glances at the historian to see how she’s taking it. A mask of surprise covers her features, eyebrows raising with her head easing forward. Wide-eyed, and lips parted.

“She’s _what?_ How do you know?”

Thinking back, it makes sense, Charlotte muses. A prime comparison being to when Lacey held her gun to Becky’s temple, threatening to execute her in a similar fashion to what Lazarević did to Shayna. She vividly recalls the sick smile that Lacey threw to her. As if she knew what she was doing, and she knew who Charlotte was. A form of getting even, perhaps, or paying tribute to her father. Threatening to take Becky from her, like when Sasha took Lazarević away from Lacey. It’s uncanny, she thinks.

“She said so,” Sasha gives her a half-shrug. “I didn’t question it. I knew, once she said it. Something about those eyes looking so glassy yet empty. He must’ve gotten her mother pregnant some time before being convicted decades ago. Before his _first_ escape, even,” the explanation is a guess, but it’s pieced together quickly, and it’s rather believable.

“Full circle, in a way,” Charlotte whispers, her head bowing while chewing her inner cheek.

“Are you alright?” wasting no time, the mercenary makes sure it didn’t strike too deep of a chord within the blonde, and Becky wants to hear the answer, too.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m not worried about me this time,” she glances in the Irish woman’s direction, seeing a pair of sunken-in eyes staring back at her.

Becky remains silent, leading Sasha to uplift the conversation. A reminder of why they’re still here, and what they have left to do.

“Now, we heard them talking about the trail,” her hand reaches down to her pocket, rummaging through it, “and I managed to swipe this.”

Between her fingers is a folded note. A glossy map, more specifically, having various scribbles on it and very few water stains. Above anything, it looks more legitimate than any other map they’ve seen. More authentic, and more personal. Its contents covered in a glossy finish. Soon, Becky’s mouth opens when she realizes.

“It’s Avery’s own map,” the enthusiasm in Sasha’s voice is childish, also cunning. “He was planning on leaving. Docked his ship right under that mountain. The _treasure_ is right under that mountain,” her hand points beyond the trees, each woman looking up.

Becky’s heart falls into her stomach as she looks into the mouth of the fanged monster. The central cliff of the island. The one she’s been dreading, all this time, and avoiding for as long as she could. She should’ve known that it would be Avery’s infamous hiding place. Looks, alone, could steer inquisitive minds away from the treasure kept within.

She swallows hard, knowing of what lies within the cave. Not only the presumable treasure ━ if it’s still there ━ but also Lacey, and Rhea, and their army. The _dangers,_ more than anything. Everything, lying in wait for their group to walk inside. Lying in wait to pick them off, one by one.

“That’s where they’re heading,” Sasha turns back to them, beaming when she looks at Charlotte and Becky.

“They have to go around, though,” the brunette’s information tails the mercenary’s. “We have a straight shot to it,” she points through the forest. “It’ll take a bit of jumping, maybe some sliding, but I’d say we’re professionals, at this point,” a smirk appears on her face, confidently so.

“What’s keeping us, then?” in a similar fashion, Charlotte smiles at the two, amazed women, then at Becky who takes a breath without moving.

“What if Avery actually managed to escape with the treasure?” the redhead dismisses their theory with her own ━ an attempt to get them to reconsider. “What if the ship is somewhere in the bloody ocean?” her voice raises, waving a hand toward the bay.

“Then, we’ll find it eventually. For now, this is our lead,” Sasha’s finger taps the map’s surface, making a rustling noise.

“But we don’t _have_ to do this,” her next attempt at getting them to change their minds is weak, hardly held up by her own body language. “I don’t _want_ to do this. I…” there’s a pause, shaking her head and letting her voice fall to a mutter. “What if we just go home?”

“And give up?” Bayley frowns, and Becky closes her eyes in exhaustion.

“Lass…” it’s breathed out through a laugh. “Lacey _expects_ us to show. She wants us to follow them so she can end this━”

“We’ll end it before they do,” the purple-haired woman cuts in, words gentle yet promising. _“And_ we’ll get the treasure. I know I said I don’t care about it anymore, but how can I ignore it when we have _this?”_ the map is waved around. “How can _you_ ignore it?”

No response.

“We’re good at this, and you know it.”

Her eyes dart between the three women, hoping one of them will come to their senses. Hoping one of them will understand that they’re sitting ducks, and she’s not going to ask them to fight her battles anymore. She’s _tired_ of having people fight her battles.

“Becky, it’s right there,” their navigator puts on her best, convincing smile while pointing at the map. “Within our grasp.”

Again, no response, but they can see her resolve crumbling.

“What’re you thinking, Becks?” Charlotte asks with care, tilting her head to the side. “Whatever it is, you’ve got us.”

Brown eyes stare into hers, one corner of her mouth twitching as if she wants to say something. As if she wants to give in, wrap this up, and go home. Bayley sees it, too.

“We’re not going to get anywhere if we don’t take risks,” her conclusion is insightful, the brunette reminding Becky of the phrase. _“You_ said that.”

 _They still don’t get it,_ she thinks. They still don’t understand. Maybe they would if she just came out and said it, but…

Nevertheless, she begins to nod.

“Okay, okay,” Becky relents through an exhale, putting on her best, plastic smile. “Let’s go find us some treasure, right?”

With that, the others begin to turn away. Until she stops them, that is.

“But I mean it,” they pause, facing her again. “You guys watch your backs and look out for yourselves, agreed? Anything happens to me, you run. You get away. Lacey will stop at nothing, I swear. The only thing I ask is that you stay safe. Promise me, all of you.”

“Aye, aye,” Sasha smirks, trying to get a smile from the hunter but failing as they hear a sigh.

“You got it,” Bayley says her piece.

“Promise,” Charlotte whispers.

“Alright,” with their agreement, her arm gestures to the jungle, “lead the way with that fancy map of yours.”

Sasha and Bayley grin, the mercenary jogging ahead up the hill. Charlotte falls back to walk alongside Becky, eyes boring into her temple as they begin to follow. Without turning to her, the Irish woman forces out a diluted, watery chuckle.

“Thanks for saving me, as per usual,” it holds an underlying disappointment, though the historian can tell Becky is dealing with more, inner turmoil.

“Something tells me that’s going to be a reoccurring theme between us,” the historian murmurs, leaning closer.

This time, Becky turns to her, watching the blonde’s lips curve into an endearing smile. For a second, she matches the sentiment, having to shake her head free of the wandering thoughts before looking at her feet.

Her expression falters, but the blonde doesn’t notice as they continue to follow their friends toward the leaning cliff.

 

* * *

TUES., 3:29 P.M.

* * *

"So, we’ll be entering the mountain from an upper level, whereas Avery’s ship should be docked in a bottom cavern hidden away from plain view. Looking from the outside, at least.”

Bayley’s explanation is rambled on as she carefully treads upon the loose gravel of the mountainside. Leg wound evidently healed, by now, or else her excitement merely overruns the pain. Sasha follows closest to the brunette, map in hand as she makes sure their navigator stays safe where she enthusiastically leads them forward.

“Makes sense,” the historian huffs as she pushes her body onto a lesser, stone slab. “He didn’t want just _anyone_ finding it from an outside glance, but also wanted a quick getaway.”

Once situated, she peers over her shoulder to make sure Becky is following close by, watching the redhead nimbly clamor up the rubbled ground with outstretched arms and quick reflexes ready to be used. Then, the blonde faces forward again, noticing that they’re being lead to a ninety-degree rockwall. Something they’ll have to actually climb, instead of walk upon sloping inclines full of rolling stones that threaten to avalanche back down to sea level.

“Which means, since we’re entering from above, it’ll be a long way down to the cavern,” Sasha adds to the plan. “And it’ll be wet,” it’s pointedly spoken with an eye-roll, though mostly paying attention to where she steps.

“Yipee,” a similar expression is made by Charlotte, then she attempts to get a word in from Becky ━ the only one who’s been predominantly silent for the extent of their travels, suspiciously so. “We’ve had our fair share of swimming, right, Becks?”

No answer.

Charlotte has to turn around again once they’re standing atop a flattened plateau of the mountain. Resembling a cake layer leading to a higher point as they slink upwards along its growing slope. Looking past the redhead, she can see how far they’ve walked since leaving behind their Jeep in hopes of sneaking their way towards Avery’s treasure. From the base of it, they probably look like ants. Like miniature people rock-climbing without the proper equipment. Up here, she feels the sun’s rays more directly against her skin. It reminds her that she’s likely acquired a good sunburn along her exposed body, especially judging from the way Becky ━ more pale than any of them ━ is sporting a modest, red blotchiness.

Aside from that, she shakes her head of the heights, though she wouldn’t be opposed to basking in the overall view of the treetops and bayside below. The subtle breeze that periodically filters through, as well. Instead, she focuses on Becky again, and the Irish woman finally notices the stagnant boots set in front of her.

Her chin raises to see Charlotte tilting her head in curiosity. Also heavy concern mixed with slight understanding. As if the blonde doesn’t want to pester her into talking, yet would be open to doing so, if need be. Becky swallows, shaking her head and blinking hard. A pretended reaction of sudden acknowledgement. Like she hadn’t previously heard the conversation, however knows she should answer.

“Hm?” the treasure hunter can’t stop the hum from exiting her throat, having to force a smile. “Oh, yeah,” she closes her eyes and lightens her posture.

It’s still not enough for the taller woman. Charlotte is close to taking a step forward, close to leaning toward her ear in order to whisper that they’re almost done with this ━ they’re almost ready to head home, to have that date, to snuggle up, to discuss everything ━ until they’re interrupted by a sigh.

“Looks like there’s no way around,” feet behind them, the brunette scoures the area for an alternative route to climbing the intimidating rockwall.

“Okay, then,” Sasha turns to Charlotte and Becky. “One more time?” her cheeky gaze lands on the redhead more than her counterpart. “Onward and upward,” a tiny smirk curves her mouth, getting a chuckle from both women.

“‘One more time,’” Becky repeats while walking closer. “That’s a jinx waitin’ to happen.”

“Where’d that positive attitude go?” she hears Bayley’s voice in her ear, the brunette displaying a quirked eyebrow that she doesn’t see because she’s too busy facing away.

Without much notice given to the question, Becky mutters a quiet “A bit tired for positive attitude, love” that, ultimately, gets Charlotte’s attention.

The blonde isn’t granted much time to delve on the topic. After it’s said, Becky gestures to the rockwall so everyone can go in front of her. She doesn’t even look in the historian’s direction ━ a worrisome action, on its own ━ while rubbing the back of her neck and looking off to the side of the mountain. Brown eyes roam the foliage, the thinning trees they’d emerged from with the dirt road on the other side of their vegetating wall. Charlotte watches her take in the sights with the redhead’s mouth fallen into a straight line. Her features sharp, and jawline prominent as it clenches intermittently.

She can tell that Becky is dealing with something more since she was captured. Something more than when they’d been fighting to reunite with their friends. It’s like everything’s hit her all at once, and getting off the island is now dire for the Irish woman’s well-being.

Part of Charlotte regrets not cutting into their conversation from after they’d saved Becky. For not telling Sasha and Bayley that, maybe, they should reconsider not following Lacey, and they should listen to the redhead when she pleaded with them to go home. It’s as if something snapped within the treasure hunter. Like something broke, or came into an abrupt epiphany that this is bigger than what they’re dealing with. Sure, they’ve come to terms with that repeatedly within Avery’s domain ━ courtesy of those traps, his torture devices, the entire story of his endeavors ━ but, now, Becky’s look of defeat is monumentally draining. Even to simply look at. She can tell the woman is wearing thin for whatever reason.

Overall, it’s best to speed this up, do what they have to do, and leave. Go home, so she can work on mending the redhead’s wounds. Go home, so she can work on helping Becky with whatever she needs. Give her space, if that’s what she requests. Keep her close, yet far enough to breathe.

Charlotte exhales through her nostrils, seeing Becky look at her with a tiny, saddened smile. The expression is mirrored.

“We’re gonna make it,” she mouths to the Irish woman.

No reaction to the words, nor the sentiment. She doesn’t give Becky much of a chance to, anyway. She doesn’t want to continue forcing a mindset onto the Irish woman. Sometimes, you just need time to sulk in whatever you’re dealing with. Charlotte can only hope that Becky knows she’s here for her.

So, she turns away, and takes her time climbing the wall when she sees Bayley and Sasha already stationed above.

“You guys are gonna want to see this,” the brunette sounds annoyed, also exhausted.

From below, Becky takes a breath before following everyone else up the wall. In the process, there’s a certain coil in her muscles that she can’t alleviate with plain, mental repetition of Charlotte’s words.

 _We’re gonna make it,_ she tries to think.

It doesn’t work, but she still attempts. Over and over, chanting the phrase within her mind. The sentence hits harder than it should, realistically. As Charlotte mouthed those four words, all Becky could think about was when she said them to Paige. When she spoke them milliseconds before her best friend was ripped away from her. Those words are hazardous, in more ways than one. They’re counteractive, she thinks.

But even the implication is lost on Becky. The idea that they’ll be alright, or they’ll escape this place. What this place means, moreover. The unfortunate part is that she doesn’t believe it. Not now, anyway. Not when she’s made up her mind on something unknown. Something volatile and incredibly stupid, but what she believes is necessary. She knows she has to finish this, even if she doesn’t want to. However, there are many factors she’s only recently come to terms with. Factors she’s been ignoring, yet factors that have been around since the very beginning. This is _her_ fight, and no one else’s.

She presses her forearms flat to the platform’s surface while using her boots to scramble up the remaining portion of wall. Then, her palms are placed against the dusty stone so she can ease herself to her feet, brushing off her hands before looking at what they’re dealing with. What Bayley sounded so irritated about, furthermore.

Passing the three who stand in a line, she catches her first glimpse of the chasm. A deep crack in the ground, leading downwards approximately fifty feet until they see boulders crashed below. When she steps near the edge, pieces of gravel trip downwards and fall to the bottom, crashing seconds upon seconds later. They can hardly hear the sound they give off once they make contact with the pit’s base.

Becky shifts her jaw, looking away from the chasm and studying its surroundings. On the other side of the twenty-foot gorge is a winding, dirt path ready for them to run up. Ready to be traveled further up the mountain and, eventually, into its cave. A straight shot to it, less than ten more minutes of walking. Siding the rift on the left is another cliff to climb upwards, then a lengthier travel through thick forest. Certainly not kempt, matted down, or designed to be any way of moving into the mountain. If they had to, they could make it work. Crossing the chasm, however, is their best forward shot.

She chews her inner cheek, squinting while observing the wooden beam hung above it. It appears to be what you’d find above a common well, keeping a rope tied into an iron loop. Normally, there would be a bucket at its end. Here, it’s free. Free for them to swing upon. To jump to, to hold onto, to launch themselves across the rift and to the other side. It’ll be risky, for sure, and she’s not sure how well the skinny piece of wood will hold up against their weight ━ their swinging ━ but, again, it’s their best bet. Who knows how long the winding, lefthand path ends up as it rounds part of the mountain. As it travels through the thick forest left atop the rock. And, on their right, there’s nothing but a sheer drop to their deaths. An obvious no-go.

A breath escapes her throat, closing her eyes for a moment. Her decision pokes at her resolve, begging it to break down once and for all. Pushing those thoughts away, her shoulders stiffen, and she forces her tears back behind her eyes.

“Right,” she clears her throat, turning to the others. “I’ll go first.”

“Wait,” Charlotte steps forward, moving closer to Becky. “What if it’s unstable?”

“That’s why I want to go first.”

“Becky━”

“Please,” the redhead’s voice is so quiet, so strained and cracked ━ unbelievably tired, and simply… _done._ “Please let me have this.”

The look of defeat sparks in Becky’s eyes, causing Charlotte’s shoulders to slump in relent. Her mouth falls into such a heavy frown that her lips part, and she has to seal them shut by force. Quite frankly, her eyes want to water at the Irish woman’s outright plea for her to listen, and at the sound of how tightened her throat must be.

In the end, the historian takes a deep breath and steps back. A smile is forced, giving Becky the green-light to do what she has to.

Facing the rope again, Becky fills her lungs with fresh air, then clears her mind of possible, treacherous outcomes. Then, she puts on her best, steely facade, puffs out her cheeks, and readies herself to get a running start.

Turns out, even with her heart feeling heavier than usual, she’s able to focus more than on most of this trip. She’s able to run valiantly, leap from the correct spot, and grasp the rope’s fibers with perfect precision. On contact, the beam overhead creaks, bends, and sways, but only in the same aspect that a normal tree branch would. Ultimately, it’s sturdy enough to be used by the three other women. So is the rope, and even the other side of the gorge is held up fine as her boots slam down against it.

Dust puffs out from beneath her soles, but, otherwise, she’s standing tall and still gingerly grasping the rope. Observing it in her hand, and staring into its thin wires. As if it’s the most interesting object she’s seen, as if it’s caught her eye more than most treasure has.

Realistically, she’s merely stomaching the decision that she’d made earlier. The decision she begrudgingly accepted against her own heart’s begging. Against her common sense, too. Against her promises to everyone ━ to Charlotte, in particular ━ and against her own character development.

“Toss the rope back over,” Bayley breaks her out of her inner turmoil, brown eyes lifting for a moment.

Her forehead creases, and a breath exits her parted lips. Internally, her heart thumps within her chest. Attempting to break free, and to leap across the rift so it can hold onto those she’s come to care for so vividly, so desperately. Even in such a short amount of time. Most of all, it wishes to hold onto Charlotte. To wrap her up, to protect her forever from both physical ailments and emotional. From everything that’s happened, and what might as well happen, moving forward.

She doesn’t let go of the rope. Instead, her left hand grips it tightly. Her mouth closes, and her jaw shifts again. A tired gaze lifts from her hand, to the wooden mechanism above the chasm. The one thing that gives them a solid shot at making it to Lacey. The one thing that gives them a chance of ending what Becky started.

No.

She may have gotten them into this, she may have convinced them to join her, to do her dirty work, but that ends now. That ends here, whether or not they want it to. There’s just too much on the line, too much being sacrificed to do her bidding.

No more.

Inevitably, this encounter is the culmination of everything. The end of the end, in terms of Becky’s fight against Lacey. Against her past, more than anything else. And, now that they know who Lacey is ━ who her _father_ is ━ there’s no doubt that Sasha and Charlotte’s connections make them massive targets, as well. Perhaps even an equal target to Becky, herself. Both women took part in the demise of Lazarević, and the evil blonde will never let that go. Becky can’t afford to put them at risk solely to end something she’d started.

No way.

No matter what they’ve been through together, this is _her_ story to close. For her sanity, her well-being, her dangerous pining, her false determination. For the three women staring at her, too. For Paige, for her suffering, for her unfortunate passing. For this stupid-as-hell, toxic-as-fuck _obsession,_ above all. She has to end it, herself.

With little to no acknowledgement of the voices and curious looks given by her three partners, her right hand reaches for the pistol in its holster. When it’s revealed from behind her hip, the other women’s eyes grow wide.

They know what she’s bound to do.

“Becky, don’t do it.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“No, please, let’s just━”

Swallowing hard, she drills three, rapid shots through the beam’s support while letting go of the rope. That’s all it takes, too.

The women’s mouths drop open as the beam falls down into the pit, leaving them no way of crossing the chasm so they can make it across. Leaving them no way to join their partner quickly, or to stop her from leaving, by herself. Her intentions speak volumes, and the pain in her eyes is even worse. Charlotte sees the way they water heavily, and how one tear drips down her cheek within an instant. The blonde’s head shakes slowly, incredulously, feeling her heart clench for the treasure hunter. She’s speechless.

Sasha, however, isn’t at a loss for words.

“Are you fucking insane?”

Tears freely stream down her cheeks now, following the curve of her jaw until they drop to the stone ground.

“No one else is going to risk their life for me, I mean it,” she says while shaking her head heavily, choked up beyond belief but forcing the words out.

“We’re a team. We just told you that.”

“I have to see this through, you guys, but I can’t do it with a clear conscience knowing you’re still in danger,” Becky swallows her pain, rubbing her lips together before pointing to the bay. “Take one of their boats, get yourselves off the island as fast━”

“You’ll get yourself killed,” the brunette interrupts, Becky’s shoulders slouching as Charlotte feels her own eyes watering.

When the redhead doesn’t answer, Sasha lessens her irritation, ready to convince the hunter to choose otherwise.

“Listen, if you don’t want us in danger, then fine. We get it,” she tries reasoning with their broken partner. “We shouldn’t have pushed you when you said you didn’t want to do this. But we’re listening now, okay? We’ll stay safe, like we promised,” her mouth is curved into her best, convincing grin, albeit equally as pained. “The only way that’s happening, though, is if we all walk away together. What will it be?”

The historian watches Becky shake her head again. There’s a sob that rips from the woman’s throat, being heard across the rift no matter how far apart they are. Charlotte remains silent, dumbfounded and sulking in her self-blame. She should’ve done things differently. She should’ve listened, and she should’ve accepted Becky’s offer to go home sooner rather than later.

“I can’t walk away,” the hunter’s agony overtakes her features, though a sad laugh falls from her lips. “This whole time, I tried telling myself that there’s a chance Paige would want me to finish this for the both of us. I had this moronic belief that, somehow, I could bring her back if I just found Avery’s treasure.”

During the pause, Becky looks directly at Charlotte. The blonde lets another, two tears slip.

“For years, I’ve been chasing my tail hoping it’d distract me from what I didn’t want to accept,” her lip quivers, having to bow her head before sucking up a large breath. “I can’t bring her back, and finding this won’t change that,” it’s cried out. “But I _do_ need to find it for my own sake. If I walk away now, the obsession will never stop, and I’ll only end up chasing my tail again and again. I’ll only continue lying and… _pining_. I’ll continue putting those I love in danger. I can’t do that anymore.”

They’re silent, listening to Becky’s explanation with their own minds on overdrive.

“That’s the reason Paige is dead. _I’m_ the reason she’s dead,” Becky pokes her own chest, frantic about it. “I can’t let her death be in vain. I can’t have anymore blood on my hands. I _won’t,”_ her voice cracks. “Certainly not yours.”

Charlotte lifts her chin to see Becky looking at her again. She can see regret swimming in brown eyes, so much that the redhead has to turn away from her.

“In the end, this is _my_ fight,” it comes through a quiet voice, a more put-together voice. “I love you all so much, alright? But this is _my_ fight.”

For a moment, she waits for someone to say something. Someone to respond, or fight back. Even if they did, her mind’s already made up. So, maybe it’s best they never open their mouths to refute her claims. Maybe it’s best they don’t yell, or plead with her to rethink what she’s doing.

With silence being her reply, Becky licks her chapped lips, then mutters, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be this way, and… I’m so sorry.”

The final, three words are practically mouthed, and, before anyone blinks, she’s turning away with strive to run up the dirt path. She’s stopped, however, when someone does speak. _Her_ someone.

“It’s not fair.”

Becky backtracks when Charlotte speaks for the first time since she broke the wooden beam. Her eyes close, but she turns back to look at the historian who remains crying. There’s a prominent crease in her brow, too. Resembling anger, with her voice low in a sort of warning. The look of betrayal is written across her features.

That dreaded disappointment from years ago.

“You come back into my life when I didn’t want you to,” Charlotte expands on the statement. “You ask me to come here when I told you not to. Somehow, you convince me. Then you━you make me _want_ to go to more places with you, even after this. Dangerous or not, risking my life or not.”

Her rambling gets Becky to bow her head, clenching her jaw so she doesn’t break down harder than before.

“You make me _fall_ for you, and you make me want to bring you home. To be the person who manages to tie you down,” there’s a pause, the blonde shaking her head slowly before giving the other woman a dark chuckle. “All so I could just… watch you walk away? _Again?”_

“Charlotte,” it’s hoarse, “I━”

“You come back when you’re done,” tears remain in her eyes as she gives the redhead another warning. “This is _not_ the last adventure we go on together, you hear me?”

Something tugs within Becky’s chest. It actually gets her to smile, albeit the emotion is watery and overly bittersweet. It’s promising, however, when she nods. Charlotte nods back at her, settling on an unspoken agreement. A claim that she’s not furious with the treasure hunter, nor disappointed, but willing to understand her side of things despite the overwhelming pain that thumps in her ears.

“Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone, yeah?”

Becky gives them all another smile before hesitating. With a subtle, self-directed nod, she turns around and runs up the path.

Even after she disappears behind a bend of shrubbery, Charlotte remains standing in place. Watching where she left them behind, just in case Becky ever turned back. Though she knows she won’t, there’s still a piece of hope she holds onto. Not to mention the whirling thoughts within her mind.

The thoughts derailed by Sasha’s bubbling frustration.

“What, so that’s it?”

No response.

“Are you really just going to let her go?” it’s a question of outrage, the mercenary approaching her shoulder closely, even tilting her head into Charlotte’s view so she’ll pay attention. “You know, after everything, I know this is another stupid decision of hers, but I didn’t think you’d ever give up on trying to stop her from making it.”

The historian blinks, lowering her chin away from Sasha’s anger. Truly, this is the first time the mercenary has shown genuine care and love for Becky. It’s the first time she’s spoken out against Charlotte on behalf of the treasure hunter, instead of the other way around. It’s telling, Charlotte thinks. If she wasn’t sure before, their collective attachment to each other ━ all four of them ━ has become cemented. It’s become obvious.

Outwardly, she doesn’t display her surprise. Actually, she pretends to ignore Sasha, turning away entirely ━ something that pisses the mercenary off more.

“Are you listening to a damn word I’m saying right now?” she stops pinching the bridge of her nose enough to ask the question, holding her arms out with bulging eyes.

“She’s _seriously_ going to get herself killed,” Bayley speaks grimly near the forest entry, bluntly through a mutter, and it’s what gets Charlotte to actually tune back into the scenario.

“Of course she is,” she turns to them suddenly, tone vacant with a determined look in her eye. “Why do you think we’re going to make sure she doesn’t?”

A shaky breath is released by Sasha. A breath of alleviated, impending panic, as if she was on the brink of losing her mind. As if, yet again, she was locked in a cage and being held captive. Except, this time, she took to it worse than when Lacey had her and Bayley as prisoners. The brunette puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Sasha forces a smile at Charlotte, getting a mutual look of unspoken “Apology accepted.”

The mercenary then chuckles, looking between the two women with a grin turned smirk.

 _“Now_ we’re talking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y E E T .
> 
> First, lemme just say that Sasha speaking out against Charlotte on Becky's behalf is something major for her arc. Well, not necessarily an arc as much as it's more so her realizing that Becky is human, too, and that she cares about them equally. At the beginning of the story, she nearly chewed Becky out at every chance she got on Charlotte's behalf, but now it's the opposite. I think that's nice to see.
> 
> Then, we have Charlotte being pissed @ Becky without turning her cheek. A lot of times, she'd exploded against Becky and didn't let things rest. But I like to think she's grown since then, and she's willing to feel her anger without simultaneously dismissing her affection and care for Becky. She knows Becky is like a wildfire, by now. She knows she's hard to contain, but she'll be damned if she doesn't try. Nevertheless, that doesn't mean she's going to listen to Becky and turn away, though. You see that at the end here, and you'll see it next chapter. Becky WILL need her own hero.
> 
> AS FOR BECKY, herself, this is where she gets tricky to trace in terms of emotions. I'll even admit that it took me an hour or so to actually sit down with everything she's been through written on a doc so I could figure out her endgame of it all. That's when I realized that even Becky, the character, has no idea what her endgame is. It'll be explained in the final island chapter (next chapter), no doubt, but I'll vaguely explain here: She followed Avery's treasure via obsession and pining over it. Even before Paige died. Then, when Paige died, she pretended that she owed it to Paige to find the treasure. Now, that's not the case. Because everyone in the world knows that addiction and obsession doesn't just go away, and it doesn't fade once you have a "better" reason to be addicted or obsessed. Frankly, you often use the excuse as a crutch to brush off your habit. In a lesser form of the term, Becky is sick. It's a risky life that's very much a vice, and while everyone screams at her to walk away and drop it... she doesn't know why, but she simply cannot do that. When she thinks that her friends "just don't get it," it's that she knows they don't realize how bad of a life this can be, and what it can do to you. But, until she passed over that chasm, she couldn't find the words to explain it.
> 
> So, yes, she unfortunately has to see this through. She has to take the bull by the horns, and she has to face her demons. Will she know what to do when she gets to the treasure and -- inevitably -- Lacey? You'll have to see. But, nonetheless, next chapter's version of Becky is someone very raw, and very hurt by her own ways. She's a child, or a person who never grew maturely due to that obsession. Her "genes" will play into that, too. 
> 
> Thus, we have a race. Her friends won't go away that easily, and we'll stick with them for the beginning of next chapter, whereas then we'll tag along with Becky as she has her imminent show-down with Lacey and Rhea. Keep in mind: I've created arcs that you don't even know exist, yet. Conflicting ones! It'll be a great time with that 23K-long chapter. PREPARE YOURSELF FOR THAT. I couldn't cut it in any way, shape, or form because of the mental and physical extent of the chapter, so prepare yourself for that lengthy "boss fight" of an update. 
> 
> Until then, I'll be finishing up these two final-final chapters for Charlynch, as I've already said goodbye to the 4HW as a whole and Baysha. As always, thank you for joining me here, thanks for reading me, etc. I'll see you soon.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GREETINGS, COMRADES. 
> 
> Good day to the lot of you. I hope you've got plenty of rest for this chapter, along with your choice of comfort food and desired shade of darkness wherever you're reading (or light, if that's your thing). 
> 
> Before we get into this dinosaur of a chapter (I know, I've said that before... so consider that past chapter the T-Rex whereas this is the Titanosaur), let me forewarn you: This update may contain graphic depictions and whatnot (this is violent story, after all), so just... care for yoself.
> 
> But that's all I'll say for now. Join me below the chapter for a SUPERHECKIN'FKNLONG author's note. Thank you for your time.

TUES., 3:46 P.M.

* * *

Deep huffs exit her clenching throat, its walls dried from her endless, open-mouthed breaths and gasps while climbing the mountain. While _frantically_ climbing the mountain, more specifically.

The strenuous, desperate activity has become vividly painful, she’d say, and, in addition to her mounting headache, her legs feel like absolute jelly. Thinking back, it hasn’t been this bad for the day’s majority. Despite not getting much rest, she’s felt moderately fine. Okay to continue, at least. Good enough to get this over with. Then again, that was _before_ Becky jogged away from them. Now, she’s not sure if it’s from the added, emotional burden of knowing she needs to be quick, or if it’s another way of the universe fucking her over. Realistically, it could just be a sudden reminder of how active she’s been for days.

Either way, no matter the reason, it’s a relentless pain in her joins that wasn’t as prominent before now. It’s a searing burn in her muscles. A thumping pain between her ears. By all means, the latter more so gives her an idea of how high they’ve climbed, and how the mountain’s peak gives them a better vantage point yet a worse oxygen level.

Based on the dizziness, alone, she knows they’ve ascended higher than ever before on this trip. Even within the span of a few minutes, after the Irish woman scrammed. It’s as if they’ve entered the clouds, just within a short stretch of incline while passing through the tangled forest on the chasm’s left side.

After all, once she left, the three women hightailed it through the winding, thick patch of vegetation. Up a sloping length of rock where they had to plant their feet accordingly. Where, looking around, there weren’t any straight-up walls to scale, no, but the race was undoubtedly a true test of what they’d learned with and from the redhead. Nonetheless, with the hurdles and thinning air set against them, it was executed perfectly. And, here, their work pays off.

Ahead of them ━ ahead of _Charlotte,_ before anyone ━ the trees clear and give way to the unobstructed, natural light. The open air, behind it, with nothing to cradle their fall if they were to run straight off the side of the cliff. They’re gaining on one of its pristine layers ━ an area that would be dubbed a “tourist stop” ━ sitting nearly at the curve of the snapping turtle’s jaw. Once up top, they should find a cave entrance. _The_ cave entrance. The cave entrance where Becky clamored up to after using the kempt, designated path leading from the gorge’s other side.

Running ahead of her friends, through her blurring vision, Charlotte notices the stone beneath their feet turning to moist dirt. Matted to the ground, allowing grassy spurts to poke through and invite new greenery to the area. The historian eyes the ending dustiness of the stone being tainted by damp marks and evaporating water. Animal tracks, too, like little prints from birds, and lengthy foot marks of rabbits. She observes the ground’s obvious affliction by the thin air’s moisture, the clouds’ waning precipitation every now and again. From the rain that flooded through, the night before.

Memories of her night with the Irish woman flare up, begging to be remembered. Against her happiness, Charlotte has to shake her head free of the smiles and the optimism. Free of the residual feelings, like Becky’s fingertips against her skin. Her kisses, her breaths. She has to shake her head free of it all, though with the additional reminder that she can be happy once she finds Becky.

Willfully ignoring her body’s pleads to take a rest, the notion of needing to find the redhead lights a fiery instinct within her limbs. Pushing forward, and causing her to speed up. To trudge even more heavily up the hill, to the cliff that’ll give them a desired vantage point. The cliff where she’ll explain the already-formulated plan to Sasha and Bayley who scuffle along behind her. Just as exhausted, just as breathless, but less apt to act through sheer desperation. Frankly, Charlotte knows her coiled emotions are more so driven out of love. Love that Sasha and Bayley don’t fully share for Becky, however have a good taste of it for one another.

“Charlotte, will you slow down? You won’t get her back by accidentally running yourself off the cliffside.”

Her hand swats a stray, leaning branch out of her path. Forcibly ignoring Sasha’s worries as she climbs the last, two feet of dirt to get her first glimpse of the bay.

More importantly: the white and red, amphibious aircraft that rests atop the water. Lacey’s plane, humming and waiting for a quick getaway near the bottom cavern’s discreet entrance.

Tracing the flicker of the sun against the sea, in the distance, Charlotte sees soldiers packing gold and treasure into tactical boats. Walking along the shore with their findings, dumping them into the cargo beds with little to no care. As if it’s not immaculate history, and instead is merely payday. As if no one put their life on the line for such a bounty, and instead they impeded along this island’s nature with flying colors. After each unloading into the boat, they circle back and walk toward the cavern’s opening again. A chain of soldiers, gathering as much as they can fit until they head off for the mainland, and act like nothing miserable happened here. Business, as usual.

The blonde’s jaw clenches.

Behind her, Sasha and Bayley finally catch up. They sound breathless, though trying to hide it as they stretch out their backs from being hunched while climbing. Sasha does, at least. After a second or two, the brunette more so wanders atop the grass and dirt ground, careful where she steps as her eyes roam the premises. She eyes the cave’s shadows, too, seeing its large mouth with stalactites hanging from the ceiling of it. Mud on its base, with moisture very obviously seeping out. More than anything, she scrunches her nose at the muggy scent exiting its contents, rubbing her nostrils with the back of her wrist before looking at the ground again. There, her head tilts to the side.

“Well, she was definitely here,” her discovery gets the historian’s attention, turning to see what she’s referring to. “Fresh tracks. One set of boots.”

“Good, so she didn’t fall to her death, yet,” Sasha chuckles to herself, then realizes how poor of a joke it was when Charlotte gives her a pointed stare. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head without much expression, facing the bay again. Staring down at the plane, she ignores the sunlight burning against her eyes. She doesn’t even guard her gaze, or make sure she doesn’t fuck up her vision by pretending it doesn’t bother her. Her body is still, feeling the subtle breeze against her skin before it subsides again.

In any other circumstance, she’d revel in the view. The image of teal sea spanning far and wide, only interrupted by its froth as waves crash onto the shore. The soft-looking beach and palm trees scattered around the bay, planted far and wide until large, fern leaves act as a background to those. The boats, in the distance ━ albeit, they’d be more serene if they weren’t army vessels. Altogether, it’s an amazing sight. The sunlight boring down on everything, warming every surface like it should be on such an immaculate island.

But, given the current scenario, her prime focus is on the plan she’s been depending on since Becky turned away from them. Right there, staring off at where the woman disappeared, she’d been running through ideas on how to get her back, how to save her. How to get off this godforsaken island, once and for all. Together, all four of them.

Decision in mind, her back straightens and her posture stiffens entirely. Meanwhile hearing Sasha’s footsteps approach until they’re directly next to her. The mercenary practically deadpans at the sight below. The sight she hadn’t noticed, until now, as she sees Charlotte staring in its direction.

“Let me guess…” it’s spoken flatly, “Lacey’s got her own, private plane.”

A large breath is sucked up, ready to reroute the conversation.

“It’s our way out of here,” Charlotte faces the other woman, earning an intrigued look. “I don’t trust them not to come after us if we drive out of here on a boat. We’re going to need a quick escape once I drag her ass out of the cave. If I don’t take too long kicking it, first,” the addition is muttered beneath her breath.

Bayley raises her eyebrows. Approaching the two so they can stand in a compact circle. Charlotte looks between her partners.

“Are you guys good with hijacking it? No doubt there’s a bunch of muscle guarding.”

“Am I good with hijacking it?” there’s a scoff during her brief pause. “It’s as if we’ve just met,” Sasha rolls her eyes, smirking.

She’s given a nod, Charlotte slipping Becky’s backpack from her left arm and offering it to Bayley. The brunette takes it without question, slinging it over her back and holding onto the left strap with a firm grip.

“Repel down, stay hidden, and just… wait,” she instructs, gaze shifting between the two. “If we take too long, take care of yourselves and leave.”

“We’re not doing that,” the navigator speaks with a lecture, however wearing a diluted grin, “so _don’t_ take too long.”

Relenting, the historian doesn’t argue. She doesn’t have much time to, anyway, and she knows it would be hypocritical of her to lecture them when she’s close to going against Becky’s direction of doing the same. Instead, her attention turns back to Sasha, the purple-haired woman appearing hesitant. Somewhat choked up, too. There’s a tiny smile hidden behind her eyes, at the same time, until she wipes it away with the clearing of her throat.

“You’re armed?” her eyebrows raise as she asks.

The gun she’d taken from a soldier, hours ago, is presented to the woman. It’s paired with a nod and a quiet “Yeah, I’m armed.”

“Loaded?”

“Yeah.”

Initially, the mercenary simply nods. Accepting the answer, first and foremost, while internal realization begins to creep in. No matter how solid, how well-executed their impending plan may be, there’s still room to lose one another. Someway, somehow, there’s still room to lose Becky, or Bayley. Nothing is set in stone, and who knows if all of them will make it, in the end.

Although, as a mercenary and former soldier, Sasha has become acclimated to these types of situations and shoddy goodbyes, they never get easier. Actually, they may have gotten harder, throughout the years. Especially when it comes to Charlotte, and those she holds near and dear. She’s never had anyone to stick around before. No one to watch out for simply based on affection or respect. It’s been her duty, time and time again, to keep people safe. Yet, with the blonde, she was the first person that Sasha _wanted_ to keep safe. And now she’s going to have to let her walk into a possible death-trap to save someone else she’s, admittedly, wanted to keep safe.

Becky may have hired her as a mercenary, but Sasha likes to believe they’ve become actual friends. Family, even. All four of them, together, no matter how little time has passed since they met. No matter what their initial relationship was based upon, or how merciless Sasha could be towards Becky, at the beginning. Now, they’re family.

Who would’ve thought?

In a spur-the-moment weakness, Sasha all but lunges forward and hugs the taller woman. Holding onto her, and letting her eyes water with overwhelming desire to keep her safe. She knows she has to let go, at some point, but, for now, she’ll soak in the tenderness given by the blonde who wraps her in a mutual embrace.

Bayley smiles nearby, waiting for the mercenary to back up so she can do the same. A bit less desperately, but her own patent of warmth and unspoken proclamation of “Be safe.”

During their hug, Charlotte smiles, understanding the sentiment. Even if she’s personally trying to ignore the possible outcomes of her splitting up from them ━ of her maybe going against an army to find Becky ━ the notion is still there. No matter the case, there’s always a trade-off. Some just happen to be harder than others.

She swallows hard while backing up, forcing a smile until it gradually turns genuine.

“Watch out for each other,” her words are hoarse yet serious, and Sasha immediately smirks.

“‘Til the death.”

 _“There’s_ some positive thinking,” the brunette teases, bumping her shoulder with a slightly nagging look.

Sasha laughs, afterwards focusing back on Charlotte. She waits for a moment, a kind grin on her face as she gives the blonde one, final nod. A nod that provides the woman with necessary encouragement to turn around and pass over the cave’s threshold.

“Go get Hot Head.”

And, thus, she does.

 

* * *

TUES., 3:54 P.M.

* * *

Harsh wind is felt against her skin at the mounting speed of dropping.

A deep breath is taken.

Brown eyes close tightly.

Then, with a splash, she’s submerged in the warm, deep water. Bubbles of her leftover breath floating up to the surface, the new temperature stunting her senses. Otherwise being surrounded by white, subsiding froth that tickles her skin as they ascend to the surface. A product of her own making, a creation from disturbing the waves’ surface.

As seconds pass, she floats there. Underwater, dead to the world. In her own, echoing space. Undisturbed, and lost in time. Overall wondering why things are the way that they are. Why people mess up, why they hurt each other, why greed drives many, and love is a cryptic power that can make or break a person. Questioning her own existence, more than anything.

Giving herself a moment of pause, a moment of curiosity, her eyes squint open against the harsh sting of salt. Foremost seeing the streaming light come through a few holes in the cave’s ceiling and walls. A bluish-teal filter over her vision, like she’s looking through blueberry-flavored rock candy.

Shaking her head free of the ailing thoughts and the pain in her gaze, she harshly closes her eyes again. Drivenly kicking for the surface, and knowing what she has to do.

A gasp is sucked in when she all but jumps six inches into the air. The abrupt inhale inviting an extended round of five or so deep breaths. Damp, red hair sticks to the skin of her forehead. Pestering her with the clingy feeling until she slaps them away. Scratching them from her face, more like. Desperately wishing to unobstruct her view of the endless, fresh surroundings. Both in a form of interest about the foreign cave, yet also as a precaution taken against the echoing voices emanating from the cavern. The echoing voices that have gotten closer ━ _louder,_ and more clear ━ now that she’s floating in an adjacent alcove to the main chamber.

Allowing herself to gather her thoughts before heading into the fray, brown eyes look around. Observing the surroundings illuminated by cracks in the cave walls. A hole behind a single waterfall, allowing more light to shine through its liquid curtain as it joins the vibrant luminescence from the broken sky-lights. Around her, various pieces of wildlife thrive. Sitting atop mossy perches embedded into the stone texture, or slabs of rock acting like natural portions of decks.

This isn’t the first instance of serenity that she’s found, either. Actually, on her way down the sloping gravel, she found a single, aquatic turtle. The first of quite a few, now that she spins in place. Though, that previous, calm feature didn’t come without paying a price, and her skin stings as the gravel-burns along her elbows announce their fresh punctures against the salty water. That sloping gravel being one of the many obstacles she’d faced while wandering through the caves to find Avery’s ship ━ something she’d spotted, minutes ago, before realizing that she’d have to make her way down to sea level.

Spanning instantly from her apprehensive entrance into the cave, she’d been swiftly met with her first task: jumping from wall to wall, crossing gaps of at most seven feet. With precision, she’d have to kick off using the toes of her boots, then twist her body in mid-air, and valiantly grab onto the stable handholds. What she presumed to be the stable handholds, that is. Caution hit a massive high-point within the stretch of descending into the cavern.

After those jumps arrived a series of sliding. Not upon mud, and not down simple slopes, however covered in pebbly gravel that smoked around her as she slid. Burning her exposed skin, and causing her to cough as it clouded her nostrils. Also: the declining ground had cracks between each. Pieces of cave, broken and leaving her to kick off the end of one slide before dropping back down onto the next. No pause to breathe, or reevaluate her choice to leave behind the three people who mean the most to her. The three people whom she’d brought here to _help_ her, in these instances. How ironic.

Within passing minutes, she’d earned her first glimpse of Avery’s ship. Her first, real look at one of the most well-known pirates’ beloved vessel. His home away from home, practically. Somewhere he spent at least fifty percent of his days.

High above the main cavern’s watery surface, the hunter had been sliding down another slope of gravel until there was a surprising end. An abrupt drop-off, threatening to plummet her a hundred or more feet downwards into the water. The water wasn’t deep in every part, either, so that wasn’t an option. So, using her quick reflexes, her boots yet again kicked off the edge and she flung her body to the nearest wall. There, she grasped onto another set of handholds. Hanging onto the slick and slimy wall like a spider monkey. Like a cat with one more life to live. Stalling there, she stared at his ship. Mouth agape, with her heart fizzling within her chest. A soft “Holy hell” was muttered, as well.

Thus, after a few more, reckless jumps and one massive swing from a pre-set rope upon a horizontal stalactite, Becky braved it all and willingly flung herself a remaining fifty feet into clear, lukewarm water. Admittedly, she enjoyed the jump. She thrived in the way her heart lept in her chest as she made it. Still, the bittersweet aspect of it remained.

She was alone in its enjoyment.

Even here, as she paddles around in a small circle, it’s hard to ignore the nagging idea that she’s thrown away something beyond valuable for… what? She isn’t sure, honestly.

A sigh exits her nostrils, opting to look around, instead. A half-assed distraction while gathering her bearings.

From general observation, the place has been beautiful. The outside may look like a menacing monster ━ that furious snapping turtle ━ but its innards are pleasant. Alongside that single, aquatic turtle she’d found earlier, and the ones she spots now, she’s also surrounded by the sounds of croaking frogs, the flapping of birds’ wings as they nest in the higher levels, the trickling of water next to her. Sight-wise, there’s seaweed and coral beneath her boots. Red-colored, pink, blue, green. Flowers line the mossy fixtures around the upper walls, too. An assortment of shades and ages, all decorating somewhere that’s otherwise brought pain and sacrifice.

By all means, in a way, it’s also brought _her_ pain and sacrifice. After all, she left behind her friends to get here. No matter what mindset she’s in, no matter what excuse she gave them… she’d abandoned them. She walked away, just like she did from Charlotte, back then.

 _“Whether or not you wanted to keep me safe, you have this tendency to forget that I want to keep you safe, too,”_ Becky recalls the blonde’s words, knowing what she’d say if the excuse was given a second time. _“This isn’t a one-sided thing. It never was.”_

Again, it’s hard to ignore her heart’s pleading. It’s begging of her to reconsider this decision, even after she’s already walked away from them. It’s imploring of her to duck beneath the water, sneakily swim out of the cave without being caught, and find them to share endless apologies for leaving.

No, she can’t throw that away now. She just can’t. Like for the majority of her travels through this cave, Becky reminds herself that she can’t harp on it right now. There will be plenty of time for self-loathing, in the future. She told Charlotte that she’d come back, and she intends on keeping her word.

Leaving her safe place, she quietly paddles over to a half-submerged hole in the wall. A gap that’s cut in half with the water level being just below its peak. Saving enough room to keep her face above the surface, as long as she presses her cheek to a scraping, rocky texture. Wasting no more time, Becky enters through it. Willfully sliding her skin against the sandpaper-esque rock while attempting to keep her nose free of water. She’s already inhaled enough of it. Following a minute struggle, she successfully emerges into the cavern’s main chamber.

Immediately, her gaze grows wide, childishly so, enthusiastically so, and she floats in place.

“Avery’s ship,” it’s whispered, eyes unblinking and fixated on the massive vessel.

On the cavern’s opposing side to where she floats, approximately seventy yards away, a giant galleon rests atop the water. Floating there, nudging against a skinny, wooden dock that’s hardly held together. In fact, the ship looks beyond misplaced next to such an unworthy docking site. Bobbing graciously against it. The door to the boat’s rounded, main compartment opened freely, extending a plank to the dock’s surface where soldiers walk to and from its inside.

Exterior-wise, Becky notes the gold-encrusted and larger-than-life appearance. The expensive facets, like swirling designs and beveled, gold trim among lesser decorations. Multiple portholes surrounded with the same, gold tint set in a line against its deep, rounded underside. Railings keeping the top deck safe for his former crew to lean on. The vessel’s masts and crow’s nest standing tall against the smoggy air. Unbothered by the obscure temperature within the cave’s walls. Looking higher, she sees white, tattered flags sway with the slight breeze. Ropes are hung from other areas, previously allowing his crew to climb and adjust cranks when necessary. Black, slimy cannons are even set atop, waiting to be used and shot outward.

Every inch of Henry Avery’s second home, set before her eyes. Set before her existence, years upon years later. Floating beautifully, where he left it. An inanimate entity that could tell infinite stories, waiting for its owner to return. Waiting to stretch its legs once more.

Thinking back, it’s likely the biggest ship she’s seen. The most decorated, too. Even taking into account when they ran through the graveyard of various galleons from the other co-founding pirates. Given Avery’s case of narcissism, it’s not hard to believe. He definitely wanted his wealth more pronounced, and unquestionable.

One thing is off, however; considering the war that’d been making its rounds throughout the island ━ the merciless war between Avery and Tew ━ it’s surprising that the vessel is in such perfect condition. There’s not a bump, nor a crack, nor broken shards of debris anywhere around the ship. Not a solitary sign pointing to the galleon taking any part in Avery’s games, or his revenge, or whatever it may be. It’s simply… _there._ And, if you were to ask Becky, she’d admit that it makes her wonder if, somewhere along the way within the island’s winding tunnels, Avery and Tew found themselves caught in the shuffle. Maybe they even found each other prematurely, and fought it out, one on one, somewhere nearby. So much so, neither got the chance to make off with the bounty. Perhaps their duel was to the death, and Avery’s story came to a severe and abrupt halt in the least explosive fashion.

No matter what, the lack of obscurities among the ship’s boards and its overall body is suspicious. Partly unnerving, too. But, as she sees one of Lacey’s smaller, transport boats skidding her way, she doesn’t have much time to dwell on her endless questions.

Quickly ducking into the water, she swims behind a small island within the cavern. One of the many, compact lumps of dirt and moss alongside the outer walls. Their existence being the only pieces of land disrupting the shadowy water, otherwise free in the middle. _Deep_ in the middle, below the waves.

From the comfort of the miniature island, she’s able to peek out from its left side. Able to watch the motorboat carry at least hundreds-of-millions worth of gold and treasure through the tall, triangular crack in the wall. A skinny, acute angle that’s just wide enough to fit Avery’s ship through, but nothing more. Actually, she’s surprised that even his ship could squeeze through without brushing its sides to the rough stone. That, alone, is impressive.

Despite its skinny and jagged shape, she thanks the crack for allowing streams of light to seep into the cavern. Not too much, and not enough to expose her hiding place behind the lump of mud and greenery, however plenty to illuminate the cave’s body. The large, central clearing of water making vibrational patterns due to the filtering breeze. It’s enough to see where she’s going, and that’s plenty. If she squints hard enough, the cave’s exterior is even easily deciphered. The leaves hanging overhead, above the entrance. The two or three palm trees, in the distance. The water that flows out of the cavern, then into what resembles a small pond ultimately attached to the sea’s body by a tiny river. A single-laned path for the boats to drive upon, little by little, while transferring Lacey’s finds.

A flicker of blonde hair earns the attention of darting, brown eyes. Becky turns her head rapidly, so much that she hears a subtle splash come from the quickened motion. She sinks lower into the water, just in case.

Upon the dock, Lacey walks in front of a lone soldier. Speaking animatedly, and instructing him of something that he merely nods at. Becky’s gaze narrows, not being able to eavesdrop on the conversation. With that in mind, she’s on the brink of paddling closer. Close to creeping up and hiding beneath the dock, solely to listen to what Lacey is telling them to do. Realistically, her progress comes to a premature halt when another boat hums into the cave’s mouth. A shadow disrupting the light, and catching the redhead’s attention. She lowers herself back into the water, letting it drive past her.

It’s a blessing in disguise, luckily. Once the motor’s left-behind bubbles screen the water, she uses them to cover her silhouette as she dives beneath the waves. Swimming quickly with sore arms and legs, she approaches the dock without yet surfacing. Making sure she’s fully beneath the dock’s planks, unseen, before she silently lifts her head from the water while leaving her shoulders and below within. When she does emerge, however, she both appreciates yet fears the shadows that consume eighty percent of her body. With them comes the knowledge that she’s hidden away from the perpetrators walking above her. Without them, she’d know what’s swimming beneath her feet. It’s that damn unknown again.

Her eyes blink in attempts to get herself to refocus. Also supported by Rhea stepping out of the boat while the remaining soldier gets into it. Becky lowers her head back into the water, just enough to cover up to her cheekbones when the soldier’s boat passes. A precaution, she thinks. Once he’s gone, she resumes her former position, the water staying up to her shoulders. Lifting her eyes, she sees that the two women are left alone. Facing one another, as Lacey adjusts the gun in her holster.

“So, we did it,” Rhea sounds mildly relieved ━ somewhat proud, too, but in a secondhand way. “We got your beloved bounty,” the following words are more dull, yet as if she’s trying to stay happy.

“Not quite yet,” it’s absentminded, kicking a stray woodchip off the dock’s edge.

Becky hears it trickle next to her, eyeing the piece of wood but otherwise keeping her breaths shallow.

“What━what do you mean? Our men have been━”

 _“‘Our’_ men?” she’s amused. “No, you see, there’s no ‘our.’ Most of this trip, you’ve been just as fraudulent as Lynch has. Letting her escape, _multiple_ times, letting her friends escape━”

 _“That_ wasn’t my fault━”

 _“Interrupting_ me,” Lacey stresses while taking a step closer.

From where she leans against a wooden pillar, the redhead observes Rhea’s stance. How blocky she seems, and how she pauses. A sign that she’s picking her spot, almost, or reading the situation. Likewise, the atmosphere is thick. It’s not a normal pause that ensues, or any type of hesitation.

Becky’s forehead creases, knowing how Rhea’s anger works. Her attitude, in general. From the beginning of their short companionship, she knew how the woman operated with her feelings. How she _didn’t_ operate with her feelings, in a better definition. Quite frankly, she’s just as much of a loose cannon as Becky is. The Irish woman would be quick to argue that Rhea is even _more_ of a loose cannon than she is. But, when it comes to Rhea, she very seldom reacted inwardly ━ very seldom attacked herself for her own faults ━ and she always, in a way, exploded outwardly. She never knew how to handle herself, in that light. It seems that, even with time, she hasn’t changed. She hasn’t grown, and perhaps only became more determined.

“I’ve done all the dirty work,” Rhea lowly points out. “I’ve put myself on the frontlines so _you_ didn’t have to. I’ve spread myself so thin, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Hell, I’ve dealt with Avery’s foolish traps so you didn’t have to. Come to think of it, he probably has that whole ship rigged,” she gestures to it, easing her head forward. “I’m not stepping foot in there. I didn’t sign up for any of that. I didn’t sign up to _torture_ or _terrorize_ anyone, either.”

The Irish woman frowns. There’s something off.

“You came to _me_ for an opportunity,” the blonde argues. “I gave you one.”

“I didn’t think we’d go out of our way to snipe our ‘opponents.’ Who, come to think of it, are a hell of a lot better than we are. Maybe I picked the wrong side.”

“Let’s stop acting like you work for me out of the goodness of your heart, shall we? You want what I’ve taken from you, and you’ll stop at nothing to get it back.”

Silence.

“Have you forgotten her already?” there’s a sharp chuckle that comes with Lacey’s taunting. “All this nasty chit-chat makes me wonder if you’ve lost your love for her. _‘Toni, Toni, Toni,’”_ she mocks. “That’s all I used to hear. Now? Nothing.”

Heavy footsteps walk above where she hides, Rhea not hesitating to step up to Lacey. The blonde’s chin lifts, in response. At the thickening air, Becky’s lips part and her warm exhales are felt against her own skin. Not having much space to filter through, as she’s stuck within a compact area. Looking around, she manages to shift her position rather minutely ━ very carefully ━ and gives herself the ability to peer through a broken crack between two of the planks. There, a gradual smile curves Lacey’s mouth. A twisted, conniving smile. The other woman’s jaw clenches at the uncaring attitude.

“I’m finished,” after a moment, Rhea warns. “I’m leaving here, and I’m going to find her, whether or not you tell me where she is.”

“You’re finished when I say you’re finished,” she gets even closer, sneering at the other woman. “I own you, General. Or, should I say, ‘Private’?”

“No one owns me,” it’s dangerously spoken, Rhea’s tone being just as dark. “The sooner you quit thinking you do, the better. I may work for you, but I’ve sure as hell done more on this expedition than you’ve done since you’ve slipped from your mother’s filthy━”

A pistol is whipped against her jaw. At the force, Rhea collapses onto the dock as Becky goes wide-eyed. Blood already begins to pool along her lip, inadvertently nipping the skin as she was hit. On the ground, she rubs at her jaw in distress. Simultaneously shaking her head as Lacey kneels down next to her. It’s not an act of mercy, however, or the blonde comforting her. She’s not apologizing, either. Instead, not giving up, Lacey waits to be faced before gritting her teeth and slugging Rhea across the jaw. Becky recoils against the dock’s support, needing to look away.

“More work, huh?” another punch is gifted to Rhea, this time her cheekbone, the woman flopping onto and scratching at the boards. “Listen, I may be a lady, but I sure as _shit_ have a better right-hook than you do.”

For good measure, it’s demonstrated again. Becky can see that Rhea’s lip is busted in two, different places. She cringes from where she floats, having to put her hand over her nose and mouth when the blonde leans closer to the deck’s surface. Her body stays still, not wanting to make any unnecessary splashing sounds.

“I won’t tolerate your back-talk anymore,” she bites practically against Rhea’s ear. “I brought you into this, and, sure, you needed a little incentive to keep moving, but I certainly won’t hold back from tossing you out of it. After I rid us of your precious little girlfriend.”

Heavy breaths are heaved against the boards, Rhea’s face smushed against the rotting surface before Lacey forcibly flips her onto her back. The woman’s chest heaves with exhales coming out, mouth hung open as blood trickles against her cracked lips. The blonde isn’t finished. Seconds pass before she scratches at the fabric against Rhea’s chest, yanking her forward so their faces can be uncomfortably close.

“Is that what you want?” she speaks through her teeth. “Huh?”

Pained eyes stare at her. No response, otherwise.

A wave of quietude falls over the area, and Becky pinches her nose so she can stay absolutely silent. She observes the altercation fully, not sure what to think anymore. Although, partly, it makes sense as to why Rhea handled her with at least some form of care after Paige died. Why she made sure to give Becky her space, even for only a few days. It makes sense as to why the redhead saw a sudden snap from Rhea. A moment where she turned into someone so volatile, so _desperate._

She shakes her head, blinking hard when movement stirs above her.

Allowing the other woman back to her feet, Lacey fixes her own hair before patting down Rhea’s clothes. A nonchalant gesture, as if it’ll make up for what just transpired. As if it’ll erase what she just did, and the scars she’s created.

Against her will, Rhea lets it happen, and she makes it to her wobbly feet. Then, Lacey presents a hand to her. Apparently, this acceptance isn’t as easy. It’s a show of crappy respect, or half-assed agreement. An amends, of sorts, but a shoddy one, at that. A round of hesitation comes, too, with Rhea staring at the gesture. Wearing a giant, swollen frown that the Irish woman can see from below. But, after another second or two, she accepts the gesture and shakes her boss’ hand.

“Once we’re done with this, you’re giving me back what you’ve promised, and you’re leaving us alone.”

She receives a smile, Lacey tilting her head in faux innocence. The tut of her tongue is heard, after that.

“I’m glad I’ve helped clear your mind.”

A sigh exits Becky’s nostrils. A decisive one, at that. Not being one to sit back and watch, the treasure hunter shakes her head with a mental “Fuck it” being given to the universe. It’s time to end this, she thinks.

Carefully, she uses the supports of the dock to propel herself to the shallow side of the water. Eyeing where the final plank connects to the small island, she paddles without making much of a sound. And, once she’s prepared, a deep breath fills and exits her lungs. A final attempt at clearing her mind, and readying herself to face the two women who have valiantly targeted her for as long as she can remember. Time is a blur, nowadays. It’s exhausting, and it’s practically endless.

Pebbles crunch into the damp sand beneath her boots as she walks up the slope of the rocky shore. A resemblance of walking across a murky beach when the ocean is at its low-tide point.

Her presence isn’t noticed until she takes her first step onto the dock. An automatic creak fills the air, and her bones stiffen. Formerly, Lacey and Rhea had been facing away, their backs turned, but the noise is Becky’s reveal. She lifts her chin when they look at her, neither of them reacting much.

Until Rhea’s gun is pointed in her direction, at least. Much to the women’s collective confusion, the Irish woman hardly twitches when she’s held at gunpoint. She doesn’t flinch, or jump. Nor does she cower. In actuality, she raises her hands in passive surrender. A stoic, unbothered expression masking her features. Hiding her fear and her unwavering unknowingness about the confrontation. About what she’s doing here, more specifically, and what she’s bound to do. What she _can_ do, even. Outwardly, she pretends to be confident and borderline cocky, keeping her chin square to her enemies. Keeping on her false bravado and acting as if they’re her pawns, instead of the other way around.

Supporting her farce persona, arching an eyebrow, Becky moves to reach for her holster where a gun drips with water. Rhea cocks her weapon in non-verbal threat. A threat that’s derailed once the redhead shoots her a look, brushing it off and slipping her firearm out from its resting spot.

Pinched between two fingers, it’s tossed into the water. Disappearing beyond the darkened shadows, and floating downwards to the bottom of the cavern’s contents. The ultimate sign to show that she’s not a treat, that she doesn’t intend on putting up much of a fight. The sooner they can get past this, the better.

“Ease up,” Lacey forces the woman’s aim to lower by grasping its barrel, hearing one of their motorboats enter the cavern. “Rhea, would you be so kind as to accompany this gentleman and make sure our shipment is set to leave?” her eyes aren’t taken off of Becky while giving the instruction.

An apprehensive nod answers her. Rhea giving Becky another look-over while walking sideways toward the boat. Likewise, a brown gaze follows the other woman until she’s clamoring into the small vessel. Though, in Becky’s mind, all she can think about is the conversation she overheard, minutes ago. Despite the daggers being shot in her direction, she can’t find the confidence to glare back in Rhea’s direction. Nevertheless, she stares at both the soldier and Rhea until they’ve circled back and motored out of sight.

The puttering engine fades into the distance, leaving behind the occasional sounds of water droplets falling into the cavern. A calming aura, in light of the stirring circumstances. The circumstances that Becky, soon, acknowledges.

She’s alone, face to face with the evil blonde who’s haunted her since Paige died. Since _before_ Paige died, even if she didn’t know, back then. Her jaw already shifts, though staring off to the side of the cave. Reluctant to look back at the woman who already smiles in an uncanny, _annoying_ way.

“To what do I owe this surprise visit from _the_ Becky Lynch?”

Her eyes close in disdain, having to shake her head. A last-ditch attempt at rousing her courage so she can ━ once again ━ get this over with. A bothered focus shifts to Lacey, back straightening.

“Spoken as if you didn’t lure me to this very spot,” almost immediately, the hunter’s eyes narrow.

“‘Lure’ is such a direct word. Let’s not be so crass,” her response is smooth, coolly. “You _wanted_ to find me. But why?” a tiny smile toys at her lips. “It clearly wasn’t to kill me, judging by that handgun now at the bottom of the cavern. No, it’s not in you to murder without necessity, is it?”

But it’s within Lacey to murder without necessity. She bites her tongue between her teeth, feeling her temper flare up within an instant. In fact, she can’t even hold it back. Quite frankly, she hardly wants to.

“You got Paige killed,” she lets her anger be known, having too many pent-up emotions and grievances ━ especially when it comes to Lacey.

If the hunter wasn’t already pissed enough, the other woman snorting at the brash nature would be more than plenty to send her over the edge. Lacey all but laughs at the redhead’s obvious lack of patience, crossing her arms. Almost in an attitude that says she’s attempting to stifle her humor about it, or trying to pretend this is a serious altercation. It’s demeaning, Becky thinks. Her blood simmers as the blonde raises her eyebrows.

“You’ve been waiting… _how long_ to say that to me?”

“You chased us into that damn prison, you calculated the riot, and you didn’t care what happened to her,” Becky’s voice is strained, as if everything is slapping her in the face, all at once. “As long as you got your grubby hands on this treasure, right? And you _lied_ about it, all throughout the time I worked for you. You pretended your army wasn’t the one that guided us into that prison.”

A breath comes. A relenting, irked yet _“fine, whatever”_ type of breath.

“Yeah, I did,” Lacey admits, her shoulders slumping. “Is that it? Is that all you wanted to hear?”

Across from her, the redhead seethes.

“Blame me all you want, dear,” a condescending laugh breaks her rebuttal. “It won’t help _your_ filthy conscience.”

“I’ve already accepted what I contributed to her death. I’ll be damned if you don’t.”

Becky watches Lacey’s tongue lick her front teeth in a type of stunned nature. Looking away from the redhead, as well. Then, she lifts her chin, and her eyes flicker into a squint. Sizing Becky up while pressing her tongue to her inner cheek. A smirk punctuates it all, tilting her head amusingly.

“Do you want me to say sorry?” it’s asked in a babyish tone. “Because I won’t. I am _not_ sorry for getting your little friend killed. I’d do it again, if it got me here faster. Hell, I’d even pull the trigger, myself.”

Tears spring into her eyes as she listens to Lacey’s miniature rant. As she listens to her obscene heartlessness, and how much of a tyrant she really is. Her cruelty is indescribable, and Becky isn’t sure how she hasn’t jumped to strangle the blonde, yet. She isn’t sure how her feet have stayed glued to the decking beneath them, or how she hasn’t dove into the water to retrieve the gun she’d tossed down.

Instead, she simply argues with a lost soul. A waste of breath, and she knows it. But something inside of her screams that it’ll never be put at ease if she doesn’t get this weight off her chest. The weight she’s carried since her friend was shot down, since her friend died for her sins. For Lacey’s sins, as well. Clearing her mind may just be what she needs to get the monkey off her back, and defeat the demon she’s faced without knowing it. Her plausible depression ━ always lingering, always waiting to take a piece out of her. Confronting the blonde who’s put her through hell in more ways than one, at least she’ll know that she’s made an effort to close this book. On Paige’s behalf, Becky thinks.

“You’re a monster,” her nostril flare. “Have you no morals at all?” a misplaced snicker is sounded through an exhale. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised considering your daddy issues.”

Lacey smirks, chuckling at the dig.

“‘Daddy issues’?” she raises her eyebrows. “Sweetie, he’s the one who taught me how to be the best.”

“The best of what? Dying unfulfilled as a person because you figured what’s in there will give you actual purpose?”

“Oh, don’t act above it all. Until what’s-her-face died, you were all about this life,” the knowing look in her eyes causes Becky to swallow the lump in her throat, caught off-guard. “Am I wrong?”

Her shoulders tighten up, meanwhile licking her lips in thought. In initial response, her eyes blink hard while staring off to the side of the dock. Listening to the sounds around her, yet tripping over her own musings within. To rid herself of the relentless voices clouding her mind, she shakes her head. A desperate attempt to not let the blonde win, or get the upper hand in this altercation.

“I grew from that,” Becky argues. “I changed, and I—”

“You’ve━oddly enough━made it to the place you apparently turned your cheek from,” the interruption is just as insightful, just as derailing. “How’s that work, hm? You say you’ve grown, but, somehow, here we are. Bickering in front of Avery’s ship.”

Silence.

Internally, Becky knows she’s made a mistake by coming here. She knows she’s essentially played into Lacey’s games, and, as much as she hates to say it, the woman has a point. If she’d grown as much as she believed, if she’d become a better person, then why is she standing here? Why did she abandon her friends to “finish this”? Why didn’t she turn her cheek from this suicide mission, right when she found them again? Right when she and Charlotte managed to save the others? Sure, Sasha and Bayley wanted to continue on, and they could’ve altogether, if she relented. Instead, she chalked it up to them not knowing what this type of obsession does to someone. How it chews you up, and spits you out. How it controls your life, and holds it hostage. How it consumes everything in its path, like a common addiction.

By musing that they didn’t understand the obsession, Becky misread her own. She forgot it existed. By all means, she _pretended_ that it didn’t. And, in the end, she let it win again. She let the obsession win, another time. God, it always wins.

Her jaw ticks as Lacey stares at her, waiting for an answer.

“Admittedly, I still have a problem. I know that,” the confession comes with her features sharp, tone scratchy ━ upsettingly so. “This life… it’s addicting. I’ve made many mistakes because of it, and I continue to make them. This obsession… it’s a sickness.”

“I disagree,” it’s immediate. “You and I may have different ways of going about this, you may loathe my work quality and cast judgements on me for what I do, but even I can admit that you’ve made a heck of a name for yourself,” Lacey roughly compliments, and Becky’s eyes narrow. “Still, you could’ve been even better if you chose to thrive in the obsession instead of pretending it’s toxic.”

“It _is_ toxic,” for the first time, her voice cracks through the plea, and her hands shake when they sway by her sides. “I’ve hurt many people because of it.”

“You’re wrong. The only toxic things in this line of business? Ethics, morality, humanity,” she explains, forehead creased in seriousness. “They hinder your growth, and they erase your progress. I’m sure you’ve learned that from the beloved pirates you’ve studied,” she tilts her head to the side. “You could’ve been so much more than what you are, if you stopped pretending you’re a hero.”

“I’m no hero,” eyes widening, Becky shakes her head in incredulousness. “I never said I was. In fact, I wish people would stop thinking that’s what I believed. I have limits, just like anyone else.”

Beady eyes bore into hers. Between them, the conversation dwindles. Dying slowly, until it’s scattered within the muggy air. Only the sound of splashing and thumping from the large vessel next to them interrupts the unsettling quietness of the cavern. Those few droplets of water, too, and the croaking of frogs in the distance.

For a moment, Lacey allows their animosity to simmer. To lie flatly between them, and rest without being provoked. Only for a moment, realistically. Giving herself a small nod, she changes the topic.

“I assume you’re aware there’s a reason I chose you, specifically, to help me find this treasure. Back in Scotland, before you ‘died.’”

“Because I kept getting in your way near Panama?” the Irish woman chuckles.

“No, because you had a better inkling about this trail than anyone, despite what scholars said about it being a hoax, a myth, a legend,” she speaks animatedly, punctually, and the redhead shakes her head in dumbfoundedness.

“I was running on a hunch, Lacey,” the redhead’s voice raises in misplaced comedy. “That’s _less_ than an inkling.”

“But you made it work. You got all the way here on ‘hunches,’ as well,” there’s a pause. “You _do_ have a gift for this life.”

“Yeah?” Becky’s eyes light up in faux entertainment, then cloud with pained tears. “Well, I don’t want it.”

“And how would your parents feel to hear you say that?”

Her lips part, taking in a shallow breath. A gasp, more like.

A faint smirk appears across Lacey’s mouth. A knowing reaction, in itself. Like she’s aware of how much the question grinds against Becky’s resolve, how much it breaks her in an assortment of places. How it targets where she hurts the most, above anything. The hunter’s lower lip even quivers at the reminder of her parents. At the reminder of what likely lead to her becoming an orphan: the same obsession. Ultimately, the same obsession that she’d inherited, against her will.

Stopping herself from appearing so vulnerable, Becky takes her trembling, lower lip between her teeth. Bitten hard, so much that it could extract blood from the healing wound. Then, she lets it go, and the redhead takes a single step forward.

“You leave them out of this,” the warning is low, serious and spoken through her teeth.

“You brought up _my_ father,” she argues, words matter-of-factly, and the Irish woman’s neck ticks while glaring. “Now, I bet you’re wishing you didn’t toss that gun overboard, hm?”

“Listen, I don’t want to know what or how you know of my past, but, in any sense, you _don’t_ know my parents,” brown eyes continue to narrow, standing her ground. “Don’t mention them again.”

“Now, now, no need for hostility,” her arms sway by her sides, soon putting her hands on her hips. “Here I thought we were getting somewhere,” she shrugs. “But as you wish,” it’s said through an exhale. “So, if not to chat, what are you here to do?”

On cue, she sees the wheels behind Becky’s eyes turn and turn. Scavenging for a reasoning, or an excuse. A decent reply, or a way to weasel her way out of the topic. She also notices the treasure hunter’s second-guessing of her own actions. The way her mouth minutely opens before slamming shut, teeth clacking together. Also, the way her eyes drift off to the side of the dock. An accidental misstep, or unplanned reveal.

Lacey doesn’t stray away from revealing her obvious cluelessness, either. Batting her back and forth like a cat with its mouse.

“Why would you circle back to find little ole me?” she whispers, verbally cornering the redhead. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you joined me under your own willpower, but I’d like to know what your endgame is,” the explanation is smooth. “Was it for that desired apology?”

The underlying taunt makes her throat tighten. Threatening to close, and to not let her breathe anymore. Not easily, at least. In time, its soreness turns prominent. Unignorable, unmistakable as she’s at a loss for words.

Truthfully, Becky really doesn’t know why she did this. She doesn’t know what compelled her to abandon her friends, and to face Lacey. Sure, she wants to end this, and she can express that as much as she wants, but _how_ would she end it? How did she she foresee this coming to a halt? How did she plan on closing this chapter? To each question, there’s only one answer: Becky _didn’t_ plan, nor did she think this far ahead. She never does, and it’s become an unfortunate side-effect of that goddamn obsession. As far as she’s concerned, her whimful acts could be pegged as additional risks. Unnecessary risks, Charlotte would probably argue. And, honestly, she’d be right.

Her lips seal into a straight line, and that’s all Lacey needs to have her suspicions confirmed: the Irish woman never had a plan, to begin with, and this is another case of letting the universe win.

“It was that obsession,” it’s more of a statement than a question, presumed through a barking laugh. “Very well, then,” Lacey cuts down on the teasing, licking her lips. “You made perfect time, anyway.”

Becky snickers, “Perfect time for what?”

“To watch your little girlfriend go down with the ship, of course,” a beaming smile crosses the blonde’s lips, even more so when the other woman stiffens at the initial mention of Charlotte. “Very ironic that you confronted me about Paige when you’re close to losing another.”

Brown eyes burn into hers, narrowing little by little at the implication. Her mind tells her it’s a trap, and she doesn’t move. It can’t be real, she thinks. She left her friends when they were safe. Where they were unseen, and unable to be tracked. They were perfectly fine, and she accepted the blonde’s terms of coming back. They couldn’t have followed her, right? They wouldn’t have.

_Right?_

“Oh,” seeing her refusal to believe, Lacey laughs with that same, babying tone from before. “You thought they got away, didn’t you?” her faux sympathy strengthens, flashing Becky a small pout. “Pity.”

Suddenly and with precise timing, their conversation is interrupted by a massive, fiery explosion. Exuding from somewhere inside the ship, unmuffled by the boards that split with force. Becky whips her head toward it, eyes widening.

Next to her, Lacey doesn’t act surprised nor bothered by the shattering boom. She hardly acknowledges the shaking cave. The thick, black smoke that exits the top of Avery’s vessel. The rocks that crumble from the nearest wall, disturbed by planks that were sent flying outwards. The orange glow that now illuminates those dark, stone walls, seeping out from the portholes and broken, upper deck. The flickering of flames that shimmer against the shadowy water, disrupting it and creating a scarier aura than earlier. The cracking of fire that’s only quieted by the interior of the ship, holding onto its shape against the burning temperature. The scent of ash already filling the air, so much that Becky’s mouth drops open.

Still, Lacey’s eyes stay fixated on the redhead’s temple. A constant smirk across her face, like she’s waiting for the treasure hunter to make a move. To take the bait, and run inside. Becky notices her expression, too, once she glances in her direction. She sees the way Lacey’s eyebrows raise. The way she shrugs one shoulder as if to say, “Stick around and find out if I was kidding.”

Brown eyes shift between the burning ship and her enemy. Darting quickly, and exchanging her attention. Her mouth remains agape, conflicted breaths tumbling out before she seals her lips by force. Before she grits her teeth, and tightens her muscles.

High on adrenaline, the Irish woman shakes her head before sprinting up the boards. Treading along the inclined plank with swaying arms, determined to find out if Charlotte is truly trapped inside. Stepping up to the vessel’s main entrance, solid puffs of smoke seep out without sign of stopping. Her mouth opens again, a pained expression on her face as she tries to peek inside. There, she finds embers cracked along the floor. Glowing, and sitting atop mounds of untouched, gold coins and lesser treasures. Anything beyond a three-foot distance is unseen by her eyes, even when squinting. Even when ducking her head, and poking her head over the threshold.

“Charlotte?” she shouts into it, practically feeling her voice muffled by the fire.

As if the wall of smoke is too thick to penetrate, as if her tone gets taken as prisoner within the flames until it’s overrun by crackling and falling beams. From what she can tell, the main portion of the ship is primarily filled with smoke and debris instead of actual fire. The heat, however, is already unbearable. It already causes her clothes to stick to her skin, despite standing on the outer plank leading up to the door. She knows she has to go inside, much against her common sense. Much against the voice in her head that screams for her to turn around, and to confront Lacey. Especially when she doesn’t find Charlotte, or hear back from her.

That is, until her eyes catch a brief glimpse of another door. A glimpse that’s gifted to her once the smoke spreads itself just enough.

Gaze widening in panic, she observes the doorway where she stands before easing herself into the room. Beneath her feet, the boards creak against the new pressure. Even so, they don’t give out.

Scoping out her path through the fire, Becky coughs hard as she moves. Stepping more so into the ship and cautiously walking atop those brittle floorboards. They splinter with every bit of motion, every drop of weight boring against their surface, though she pays little to no attention to them. No; her gaze merely stays fixated on the open, vault door at the other end of the room. The source of the explosion, thicker smoke shooting outwards from what appears to be the galleon’s treasure room.

Avoiding the small spurts of flames as she pushes forward, the treasure hunter shields her face with her forearm. A half-assed shield against the smoke that, otherwise, fills her lungs through both her nostrils and mouth. In avoidance of the scarce pieces of gold coins and the large, black cannon sitting on the room’s left side, she slides her boots against the ground. Toward the vault door, with a pounding in her ears. With tears in her eyes, too. Until they’re blinked away, at least.

“Charlotte?” another attempt is made, this time more timidly.

Her eyes burn as the fire eats away at the outer walls. Luckily, it doesn’t spread to the inner planks or floorboards. The majority is constrained to the corners of the room, shooting upwards like palm-tree branches or the green vines they’ve found across the island. The wood is old yet moist and muggy, leaving her a lengthier time before it consumes the vessel entirely. With that said, the massive amounts of flames against heat-conducting coins doesn’t necessarily bode well for the ending result. She knows, without a doubt, this ship will completely turn to ash, if given the right amount of time.

Stray hairs made wild by the humidity stick to her sweaty skin. They threaten to break her concentration, or obstruct her view. This time, she doesn’t bother slapping them away.

All but jumping over the vault door’s entrance, the redhead notices the lacking smoke of the room. It’s still there, sure, but not as much as she expected. Actually, currently, it’s relatively easier on her eyes. They don’t water as much, and they don’t sting as much. But, judging by the lack of portholes within the room ━ the lack of space, to boot ━ she’s not sure how long the clean air will stick around. In fact, she has to usher out another, scratchy cough.

Eyes frantically examine the space, seeking out the historian she’d hoped to not find in here, and she’s partly relieved to see a soldier crushed beneath one of Avery’s old, loaded cannons. An identical sister cannon to the one sitting outside the treasure room, left in the main compartment of the vessel. At least, it’s formerly loaded. Taking a closer look, Becky’s eyebrows furrow as she notices the hole in the ceiling’s back, left corner. Her shoulders slump, noting the charred boards beneath the cannon’s base, and the fiery remnants on its barrel.

Aside from the lone soldier, there’s no Charlotte. Much to her persisting relief, the historian isn’t anywhere to be found. In retrospect, that means━

“You really _are_ a loose cannon when it comes to your emotions, aren’t you?”

The sound of Lacey’s demeaning voice brings her to shift her jaw. A knee-jerk reaction at the grinding, remarkable smugness within her tone. Like she believes she’s finally outsmarted the redhead. In a way, she has, but it wasn’t by her cunning nature. No. Becky willfully walked into her trap, knowing damn well that she left Charlotte and her friends safe and sound atop that cliff.

A staggered breath exits her nostrils, turning to the doorway.

There, the blonde stands looking ever-so-triumphant. Looking overly self-involved, and cocky. Complacent as ever.

Becky merely stares at her, jaw clenched while lingering in the middle of a burning room. The fire crackles around her, cascading a pulsing, orange glow upon the undisturbed walls. No portholes for the warmth to flow through, and no way for the light to escape. By all means, she’s standing within a confined vault, judging from the metal door separating her from the outside. There’s no other way out, and they both know it. Her eyes begin to sting, both from outrage and the swarming dryness.

“I knew you wouldn’t have brought them here,” the blonde laughs, muffled by a piece of wood tumbling in the corner. “After losing your beloved Paige, why would you drag others into the fray? Lucky you didn’t call my bluff,” her eyebrows raise.

Hardly listening to her ranting enemy, brown eyes dart around the thirty-foot, square room. Feeling locked within, and done-for. A flame snaps beside her, getting her head to whip in its direction to make sure she’s nowhere near the flying embers. Ashes spew into the air within the back, right corner, singing her skin. She sweats heavily, feeling a droplet of water drip down her temple. Matting her hair to the area.

Standing in the doorway, Lacey spots her imminent danger. Her silent panic, paired with it. Her need to escape, to leave the burning ship. It brings another taste of victory to the blonde’s chops, feeling her chest lighten despite the heaviness that comes with ashy air.

“See, Becky,” there’s a dramatic pause, “you may not know what you expected from yourself when you showed up on that dock outside. You may not know why you came back, or what you’d do when you got me face to face.”

Taking a single step into the room, she noticeably stalks her prey. Becky knows what she’s doing, too, keeping a firm distance between them. Not backing up, but making sure she protects herself, if need be. The woman’s attitude has taken a sharp turn since they’d spoken outside. Currently, she sounds deranged. Totally fried in the head. Driven by madness, and payback.

If the Irish woman had been in any way unsure of the altercation’s outcome prior to the explosion ━ the trigger of this formidable confrontation ━ then, now, her mind would understand wholly. This isn’t going to end well, one way or another. The fire says so. The look in Lacey’s beady eyes says so. The churning feeling within her stomach, as well as the tickling in her nose and throat. Internally, the treasure hunter feels like she’s shaking. Outwardly, she pretends that she’s equally as confident. Equally as unfazed by the white-hot environment.

“But, this whole time, I fantasized about what I’d do when I found you again,” a devilish smile curves her mouth, eyes lit up by the flames. “After your betrayal, and finding you here, racing me to Avery’s bounty…”

A curt chuckle fills the room, suddenly changing her monologue’s direction.

“You once said I don’t deserve this treasure,” vacant eyes look at Becky whose jaw clenches, “and that really, _really_ hurt. It was the nail in your coffin. Both literally and figuratively, since I know you’re into that oddball banter,” she rambles. “So, I wanted the last thing you see to be me taking off with it. And, after _you_ go down with this ship, I’ll make sure I find your little girlfriend, your little buddies, and I’ll execute them one by one,” her tone lowers dangerously, eyes squinting. “Barbie can be the finale, if it’s any consolation.”

The words are like a single zap to her blood. Boiling it on instant, rushing through her veins at the fastest rate. Her breath even starts to be heard over the kindling fire, deep exhales scratching against the back of her throat. Blatantly ignoring the burning scent of ember in her nose, or the way she tastes soot against her tongue.

Lacey notices her anger, lips set in the same, menacing grin. Actively shaking the redhead’s resolve in hopes that she can bring her to be just as faulty as a person. Just as “evil,” or ruthless.

“Guess we both have bones to pick.”

“What, so you’re doing this out of spite now?” not wasting a second, Becky counters while gesturing to nothing in particular. “You could’ve taken the haul and left already, so don’t you dare pretend this is about the treasure for you, either. You _seriously_ stayed for me, huh?” a snicker is heard, being just as condescending. “I hurt you _that_ badly? _The_ Lacey Evans, hm,” a smile breaks out across her lips. “Y’know, I was kidding earlier when I said you purposely brought me here, but I s’pose I should be flattered that was actually the case.”

Before the vicious blonde can formulate a decent response, they both hear the treasure room’s door creak. The metallic hinges, moving slightly at the newfound pressure standing in the doorway.

Becky’s eyes lift to see Rhea standing there, jaw set with her mouth in an irritated line. A swollen line, moreover. Her eyes are more exhausted than ever, contracting some of the swelling from her cheek. Bruises already form along her skin, as well, being a companioning injury to the split lip. If that wasn’t enough, blood continues to pool against the crack of her mouth. Drying against the heat, however still leaking out from the fresh wounds. Frankly, she’s a mess.

Even so, the redhead finds the wherewithal to wave away the brief pang of sympathy that bubbles in her gut. Truly, she finds it all too comical, especially when the woman’s arm raises to reveal that she’s still sporting her favorite handgun. That damn firearm that never leaves her side, and that Becky has spotted time and time again. It’s readily equipped, as always. Ready to shoot at the Irish woman if she were to sprint for the door. Ready to make sure she certainly can’t escape.

A snicker displays Becky’s gnarled amusement, knowing her chances are looking more and more grim by the second.

 _“Now_ it’s a party,” the comment is angrily spoken at Rhea who ignores it.

“The cargo’s all loaded,” it’s directed at Lacey, the blonde smiling without turning around.

“Surprisingly excellent work,” again, her belittling persona is outstanding, and, by the looks of Rhea’s minute twitch, she picked up on the underlying attack.

Becky poaches the reaction from Lacey’s star player. Hoping to either stir the pot between them more than earlier, or at least remind Rhea that she’s better than this. A last-ditch attempt at saving her own ass, really.

“Say, Rhea, it really astounds me that you’d let this woman keep you on a leash,” she flings the statement over Lacey’s head, eyebrows raising. “What happened to the girl I met in that prison? So free, and untainted. Why does she _terrify_ you?”

“Oh, bug off with that,” Rhea doesn’t show signs of smiling, simply appearing overly bored with everything. “I’m not scared of anyone.”

There goes that plan, the hunter thinks.

“She just knows where her loyalties lie.”

Lacey’s addition is unshakingly smart. As if she truly believes Rhea is loyal to her, out of sheer desire. As if she truly believes she’s invincible, or that nothing can come back to haunt her.

Ironically, in this very moment, she’s proven wrong. Because, as she cackles in what seems like the blonde’s knowledge that she’s won it all, Becky watches Rhea approach the woman’s backside. And, from Lacey’s perspective, she feels the barrel of a gun press against the back of her head. On contact, her laughing subsides. Gradually, but very obviously. She clears her throat, at the end of it.

“What do you think you’re doing, Rhea?” her eyes stay fixated on Becky.

“Knowing where my loyalties lie.”

The blonde scoffs, “You can’t possibly be loyal to this one.”

“No,” the initial answer is simple. “You both can burn in here for all I care. My ‘loyalty’ is to myself, and to Toni.”

“Toni…”

At the redhead’s repetition of the name, Rhea’s jaw ticks. Additionally, there’s a faint shade of sadness in her eyes. Being telling and self-explanatory. An exposure of weakness, if Becky’s ever seen one. In response, the Irish woman’s chin raises a fraction. Immediately putting two and two together, as she stares ahead at Rhea. So, maybe she doesn’t know the extent of who Toni is, but this person is undeniably important to the woman.

“I made you who you are,” Lacey tries to keep calm while turning her head ever so slightly, hands staying still by her sides. “Without me, you’re a pathetic excuse for a scavenger.”

“Don’t care,” it’s passive, and evidently truthful. “This is my show now, _Private.”_

Going on little to no warning or planning, Lacey all but growls at the statement before spinning around. Close to stepping up to the other woman, close to ending the person she’s worked with for years. But, as Rhea rides high on desperation to escape Lacey’s clutches, she proves to be faster. More skilled, in this moment, and smarter. Stopping the blonde from reaching for the gun, a bullet is shot through the boards at her feet.

Eyes bugging, Lacey jumps back with a shouted “Jesus Christ!” bouncing off the burning, wooden walls. Angrily stomping her foot on the ground in an additional fit.

Behind her, Becky eyes the room. The fire still hasn’t spread much, though she hears thumps of wooden boards giving out along its sides. Sparks shoot into the air every now and again, as if a log were to topple over within a common bonfire. It invites a short burst of explosive light to be seen before it fades back to its normal, overtaking hue of orange. Her throat feels dry from it all, her nose tickling with desire to sneeze repeatedly. In fact, her eyes and upper nose begin to actually burn with pain. Not a simple, gnat-like sensation, but literally in a sense that she wonders if she’ll soon bleed. She’s not sure her lungs can handle the surroundings for much longer, either. Not after enduring such harsh events on the island, not after fending everything else off. Her body isn’t as strong as it was, when they first got here.

“Give me your gun,” Rhea’s demand breaks Becky out of her eyes’ wandering, especially after Lacey hesitates. “Give me your _goddamn_ gun!” her voice raises.

Her boss flinches at the flaring temper, slipping the firearm out from her holster. Rhea snatches the piece before she can even think about trying to use it ━ or think about sneaking both of them into her possession. Once the two weapons are grasped in her hands, both ready to be fired, she keeps Lacey and Becky on lock. One is aimed directly between the blonde’s eyes, and the other is merely directed at the redhead’s chest. A lesser aim toward the Irish woman, however not alleviating it. Cautiously, Lacey backs up to stand near Becky, the two facing the third woman who loiters in the doorway.

“You see those two skeletons right there?” Rhea nods to her right, randomly changing her demeanor.

Against her desire, Lacey turns in the instructed direction whereas Becky willingly does. There, she sees a pair of skeletons on the ground. Two, formerly unseen skeletons. When she first entered, she was high on adrenaline and without concentration to observe the whole room. Now, she notices the couple of soulless entities. Unmistakable skeletons, their bones brown and tarnished as moisture drips along them. Cascading shadows around them, as they’re otherwise lit-up by an orange ray from the fire. Below them and surrounding their frames are heaps of gold coins, much like what’s piled among the room. Pirate coins, all adorned in Avery’s sigil with their edges hammered down and less rounded than a modern-day cent.

Most importantly, through one of the skeletons is an expensive-looking sword. Puncturing a rib, and lodged there. The other entity, sat right at his counterpart’s hip, has his mouth unhinged. An everlasting smile, of sorts. A calmly gruesome sight, telling a massive story that, inevitably, wraps up Becky’s theory.

“I’ve got a good guess as to who they are,” Rhea says once she sees them looking at the fallen pirates.

“Avery and Tew,” still staring at them, Becky exhales with a lack of surprise yet mask of realization.

“Now, I may not be as up to speed with Lynch’s brilliant mind, but I at least know storytelling is derived from reality,” it’s directed at Lacey, primarily, before her gaze flitters between the pair of them. “Everyone who chases this treasure ends up insane, one way or another. Would piss on one’s own neighbor for a quick lick at the gold.”

Deep, truncated breaths exit Becky’s nostrils. Taking in as much air as she can while feeling the flames’ warmth against her sweaty skin. It begins to cloud her senses, unmercilessly reminding her that she has to escape, sooner rather than later. Nevertheless, she attempts to pay attention.

“Whatever your fucking reason is for enduring this, that’s you two’s story, but I could hazard a pretty solid guess that your fate will end the same as theirs.”

Rhea points to the two piles of bones, then looks the women up and down.

“By all means, I think you deserve it,” narrowing her eyes, she speaks to both, then looks solely at Becky. “You with your self-pity and need for redemption,” her focus shifts to Lacey, “and you with your monstrous greed. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

Lacey glares, and Rhea snickers as she turns back to the treasure hunter.

“Sure, I didn’t know Paige as well as you did, Lynch, but a moron would say she’s proud of what you’ve done while on this island. Chasing _her?”_ the gun is pointed further at her boss, gesturing with a tight grip. “C’mon, you can’t say this is what Paige would’ve wanted. Redeeming her name like this? Are you _mad?”_

The forming lump in her throat becomes too much, having to swallow heavily.

“Still, can’t say I blame you,” Rhea changes her tune, gaze lessening from judgmental to relatively understanding. “I know what’s done to save someone living. Even more to save who’s already dead.”

“Then why not let me go?” Becky tries. “Why not just fry her?”

She feels herself being side-eyed, Lacey then giggling while putting her hands on her hips.

“Really? Bargaining with this one?” a hand is waved in Rhea’s direction. “I could hardly get her to listen, half the time.”

“I’m doing what’s done to save someone living,” she focuses on Becky. “It just so happens that I need you to keep this one busy,” another vague gesture is waved at Lacey. “I’m sure you won’t mind wasting a little more time on your desperate attempts to right your wrongs.”

“You’re sacrificing me for Toni,” it’s assumed rather than asked, voice emotionless.

“You’d do the same to me for your girl,” likewise, her tone holds little to no expression, right before she smiles sadly. “Shit, you nearly sacrificed both our lives for Paige’s corpse. Remember that?” the reminder causes Becky’s shoulders to ease downwards, chewing her inner cheek. “Whether or not we were buddies, you didn’t give even half of a damn for me. I was a pawn to escape that prison, admit it.”

The Irish woman’s head shakes slowly. Eyes pleading with Rhea to reconsider, and to let her out. It would be a lost cause, though. She knows it. Rhea’s mind is already made up, and she’ll stop at nothing to get Toni back.

In a way, Becky can’t blame her. Rhea was right about at least one thing: if Charlotte were in Toni’s shoes, she’d stop at nothing to get her back. By all means, Becky and Rhea are not even acquaintances anymore. So, truly, it’s not like Rhea is sacrificing a friend. It’s not like the decision was difficult. She’s just a stranger. A piece of her past.

A tiny, defeated breath is given, bowing her head.

“Really, I don’t give a damn if either of you make it out of here. I’ll be long gone, by then, and I’ll have found Toni. Like I said, burn in here for all I care, but, if you make it out, kudos.”

Taking her backwards, her feet earn a batch of creaking from the floorboards. A thicker creak than before, acknowledging the swirling, atmospheric change. The temperature’s alteration. Slowly but surely evading the fire, Rhea gives them two, final words.

“I’m done.”

And, with that, the vault door is kicked and slammed shut behind her. Sealing them apart. Leaving Becky and Lacey no way out of the fiery treasure room. No second door, no portholes, no holes in the walls, no cracks, no breaks. No crevices to peel backwards, or weaker spots to kick through. Even if there were, by now, each wall is guarded by a thin layer of flame. A flickering stream of fire that acts like a siren. A beautiful yet deceiving sight, like it beckons for them to walk closer. Like it pretends it’s not as volatile as they believe, like they could actually smash through a wall and escape, yet, once they were to touch it, they’d ignite. They’d burn themselves, collapse, and they’d be consumed.

The redhead’s shoulders slump as the door’s echo persists. A misplaced entertainment soon taking over her attitude as she tilts her head back and ushers out a dark laugh. An ounce of heavy realization, and much more dismay.

Lacey, on the other hand, doesn’t accept what’s happened. Instead, she pounds her fists against the wood framing the door. Careful not to touch the metal, not wishing to burn her skin, yet not giving up from screaming at Rhea.

“Get back here, you _fucking━”_

Her cries are stunted by a hacking cough, having to cover her mouth with her forearm. Becky stands behind her, shifting her jaw in drab comedy.

“Well, this is just peachy,” she examines the room engulfed in flames, feeling like they’re in a kiln. “Now, _this_ is a good reason to call me Straight Fire, huh?”

Without responding to the Irish woman’s glib remarks, Lacey mutters a chilling, absentminded “No, no, no,” while huffing. Fierce determination simultaneously clouding her demeanor.

Deliberately, she paces the front of the room where flames stay away from. Creeping forward from the back, slowly. Keeping her distance from Becky, as well, as she figures out what she wishes to do. Her deranged personality doesn’t diminish, in the meantime. She merely seems like an animal locked within a cage. Even more dangerous than before, Becky thinks.

Because of that, the treasure hunter shuffles further away. Just enough to make sure she really hadn’t missed an escape behind a pile of coins, or lesser treasures. Her gaze lifts, as well, observing the ceiling. The hanging rope-bags of, this time, treasure. Heavy trinkets, goblets, wooden boxes and casings. Various rope-bags full of them, swaying with the bobbing of the ship among the water. They’re strung upwards along the ceiling by single ropes, similar to the bag that’d contained her and Charlotte, earlier. An individual, fibrous strand pegged into the wooden ground toward the wall and floor’s joint to keep them safely above.

A sharp, pinging noise breaks Becky’s concentration. Lifting her chin, she notices the blonde studying the ornate sword that had been lodged between one of the skeleton’s ribs. A golden-handled and jewel-encrusted sword, lengthy blade curved and its neck thin until it spreads out. Pointy as ever at the tip, polished to a T ━ almost like a mirror. Resembling the likes of a rapier mixed with a common cutlass. The iconic, pirate sword with a looped handle and a thicker head. Something flashier, and less likely to miss its target. Noticed above everything else: it’s vaguely directed at the Irish woman as Lacey holds it with precision.

Becky quirks an eyebrow at Lacey’s smirk full of insanity. Dripping with malice, and that unforgotten spite.

“I see we’ve come a long way from you pulling a pocket knife on me,” she teases. “Congratulations,” the addition is dull.

“If I’m going to die in here, it’s going to be _after_ I make sure you do,” her breaths are heavy, gathering a solid stance with the tip pointed at Becky. “If I can’t have this treasure and claw my way out of here, neither can you.”

“God, you really have those villainous phrases down pat, don’t ya? Do they have a book for━”

The quip is truncated when Lacey charges at her with the sword. On instinct, Becky goes wide-eyed before dodging. Rolling away with a thumping motion, and avoiding the air-cutting swipe. Tumbling forward, she’s able to land cleanly enough to quickly scramble back to her feet. Fast enough to look around in hopes of finding something to protect herself with. A sinister, daring smirk is curving Lacey’s mouth now. Knowing she has Becky cornered with the hunter’s hands out by her sides, arms extended, head whipping back and forth.

Except, as she’s too focused on her prey, she doesn’t notice the second sword stuck behind a nearby pile of pirate coins. A similar blade, merely flashing jewels of a different color. Perfectly held together, and ready to be used. Becky eyes it, not giving away her discovery when she swiftly looks back at Lacey.

The fire eats away at the walls around them, the redhead knowing their time is wearing thin. More than thin, at this point. So, taking her lower lip between her teeth, she bolts to the weapon.

As expected, the blonde attempts to cut her off. Swinging at her before a boot is jammed into her shin. On contact, she collapses onto her knees.

Scrambling forward, Becky grabs the blade and immediately points it at her opponent. Backing off to catch her breath while also laughing to herself in triumph.

“Sword fighting in a pirate ship?” her wrist flexes as she grasps the golden handle, getting a good feel for it. “A little cliché, don’t ya think?”

“You? Lecturing me about clichés?” Lacey makes a face, drawing Becky so they’re moving in a circle. “Please.”

The lone word comes rapidly. Abrupt, right before she lunges at Becky another time. As the air is cut in half, it makes a pinging noise. A sound of metal wiggling against nothing, in particular. Like the last two instances, it otherwise misses its target. Becky dodges the prod, keeping herself intact. Then, resuming her stance, the redhead continues their conversation from a second ago.

“Even _I_ have to admit this is a smidgen much, lass.”

“Are you going to shut up, or do I really have to listen to your drabble until you quit?”

“Oh, I’m just getting warmed up,” she laughs hard at the pun, smiling big as she watches the flames sway behind Lacey. “Hey, if you had a better stance, maybe you would’ve killed me by now.”

Gritting her teeth at the challenge, the blonde tries again. Unlike the other times, she switches her wrist’s orientation so she can backwards-swipe at her opponent once the first attempt is avoided. An inadvertent punch knocks Becky onto the ground, face-first, before kicking her boots along the floor. Pushing herself back to her feet rather instantaneously. Nevertheless, the Irish woman’s humor evaporates when she’s stalked by a determined Lacey. A fearless woman, in a way, as she has little to nothing left to lose. As she, quite honestly, genuinely _is_ driven by spite.

Brown eyes narrow, feet moving in a circle with the evil blonde doing the same.

“Didn’t Paige teach you that cockiness gets you nowhere?”

“No, but,” Becky catches her off-guard by taking a swipe of her own, managing to knock her onto her knees, _“Bayley_ taught me that it pisses off an enemy enough to expose a weakness.”

Similarly to when she was down, Lacey hastily pushes herself to her feet. Becky circles her, the blonde twisting her body in a circle while feeling hunted. The Irish woman hums.

“Sasha━wait, you know Sasha, right? Mercenary. I call her Pinky━”

“Get on with it,” she all but growls, pointing the sword straight at Becky.

“She taught me to be patient, even when I don’t want to be,” her eyes drift away from Lacey’s, assessing the various openings she earns by moving. “She taught me to be tactical. She’s got a mean shot, y’know. Dropped quite a few of your men without breaking a sweat, come to think of it.”

An attempted, backhanded slice causes Becky to jump backwards. Likewise noticing that Lacey’s inertia made her own body trip forward. Via quick thinking, the redhead ducks her head below the blade and gets behind her enemy’s body, turning Lacey’s sword around so it’s almost against her throat. The targeted woman clenches her jaw, raising her chin. Also gritting her teeth, trying her hardest to fend off Becky’s grip. No avail.

“Then, Charlotte taught me that being a hothead doesn’t have to be a bad thing. If I just…” the blade is brought closer to her skin, the words spoken with intricacy and a devious grin, “use it to my advantage…”

Against her own claim, Becky instead releases Lacey. Shoving her further into the room with little to no scratch upon her skin. The treasure hunter’s humanity, forcing her hand. Taking over her actions. Proving itself to be the heart and soul of how Becky operates.

The blonde notices, too, as she rests on the floor. As she catches her breath through deep huffs, and a scathing glare given to her opponent.

Becky’s shoulders tense up, as well, chest rising and caving as she feels her clothing stick to her skin. The sweat drenches them, along with the heat of the fire. Those flames that appear oh-so-intimidating, dancing around them like swaying leaves of the forest. Except, here, there’s no way to avoid them if they wander too close. By all means, they’re fighting in a legitimate ring of fire. If Lacey were to simply shove her backwards, she’d be toast. The flames only get thicker, with time. Noticeably so, unlike before. The walls are totally lathered in orange and borderline white-ish hue, being the hottest of the hot. There’s a metallic scent that fills the space, now that minutes have passed. A rancid aroma given off by the pirate coins sticking together. She’s surprised the skeletons haven’t caught on fire, yet, actually.

Again, she’s not sure how long they have. She’s not sure how long it’ll take for the space to actually collapse, or for the floor to take to the fire. She’s not sure if the boards’ brittle standards will break in half, leaving them to fall into the ship’s bottom portion. She knows less than she did before, truly.

What she _does_ know, however, is that Lacey won’t stop. That the blonde has a certain thirst for blood that Becky, herself, doesn’t. Judging by what just happened, she’s not sure how this is going to end without either of them dying ━ or without _both_ of them dying. There’s no way for them to simply exit the room and live their lives while knowing the other is still breathing. There’s no way, whatsoever.

Becky is extracted from her inner turmoil when Lacey chuckles darkly. Dragging her sword against the floor, and standing on shaky knees. She sways the weapon in her hand, shifting it against her palm as the neck of it waves by her hip. Smiling, the entire time.

“Or maybe that lady of yours just softened you,” her ensuing laughter comes softly. “After all this time, slaughtering my soldiers… you don’t have the courage to kill me. Even after everything I’ve done. After what I did to Paige, years ago.”

“It’s not a matter of courage,” Becky shakes her head, frowning severely as she takes a few steps closer. “It’s a matter of having a heart. Not actually _wanting_ to take someone else’s life.”

“Oh, how poetic.”

Lacey lifts her chin, then runs at Becky with the sword.

Another, manual dodge takes place. The Irish woman confident in her tactic of avoiding punches, shots, and ━ most recently ━ sword swipes.

But what she’s not confident in is fending off perpetrators when her thoughts and weaknesses are exposed. When she’s peeled back, and displayed for the fraud she is. For the quivering child she is, or the vulnerable little girl whose parents were ripped away. For the misplaced treasure hunter whose best friend ━ the light of her life ━ was peppered with bullets before her very eyes.

Because, as the blonde runs at her with the sword, as she avoids the hit like usual, she thinks she’s in the clear. She thinks she’s fine, and ready to retaliate. But, as the universe watches the island’s credits roll with a smile on its face, everything Becky knows is broken in half by the blade of Lacey’s sword. The blade that swings back around after the initial wave of it, coming with her enemy’s tenderizing comment.

“Maybe you can share your prose with Paige when you see her again.”

She stiffens at the words. Not noticing the back-swing. Not noticing that she’s almost entirely stopped moving, stopped dodging, stopped fearing for her life.

And, by then, it’s too late to dodge the second attempt. It’s too late to avoid it, or erase her hesitation.

A wound of a five-inch deepness forms when the blade enters her left side. A ringing automatically appears in her ears, at the same time. The sting shoots up the frontside of her body, burning her insides at the metal’s heat within her skin. She smells it, too. Then, it’s ripped from her flesh. Allowing her veins’ contents to spill outwards.

Still, she hesitates. She doesn’t notice, or catch onto what happened. Not until she glances down to see the grey fabric of her shirt turned burgundy. Not until she glances down further to see blood dripping from Lacey’s blade. That same blood trickling down her left side, and her thigh. Warming her skin beneath its thickness, more than the fire has. Her mouth opens, a shuddering gasp ripping from her chest as her eyes water. Suddenly, the pain is there.

And it’s _unbearable._

Contrary to belief, the name-dropping of lost loved ones doesn’t spike your adrenaline. It doesn’t make you angry enough to see red and defeat the face of evil. It doesn’t make you high enough to leap from waterfalls, or drop into the ocean from a mountaintop.

Instead, as the pain overtakes each of her senses, her strength begins to diminish on contact. She falls backwards, as well, when her legs feel non-existent beneath her. When there’s too much weight and focus on her torso that she topples over. Her hands ball into fists, but weakly so. She can hardly feel them, nor the bones vibrating inside her fingers. Visually speaking, she can see her forearms shaking. She can feel her abs twitching. Her mouth falls agape, as well, but that’s the gist of it. That’s all she can formulate a sensation to, other than the searing and spreading pain against her side.

Even then, it doesn’t help when Lacey hasn’t finished the job. When the blonde doesn’t wait to climb on top of her, and the bloody blade is pushed to her throat. Another cut is made, though not deep. A paper cut, almost, but enough to feel. An act of toying with her, yet again.

The Irish woman winces. Tears seep out from the corners of her eyes. In every aspect, the life drains from her limbs. It becomes worse when whatever gasps of air she can get are clogged with smoke and wooden debris. With fiery remnants, warm and charred to bits.

Lying there, with Lacey yelling in her face endless challenges and demands that Becky is too numb to hear, her body tingles. When she tells her boots to move, they don’t. When she commands her limbs to wiggle free, wiggle from out beneath her opponent’s stature, they don’t. Her left arm lies outstretched, limp, with her right arm tucked to her body. Crushed beneath Lacey’s unrelenting weight. Within her skull, there’s a lightheadedness, and she’s sure that her pupils are zoning in and out of focus from an outsider’s standpoint. Glazed over, glossy, bloodshot. Blinking every now and again, instinctually so, letting the tears trickle freely down her temples. Her vision blurs and sways, otherwise. Her throat tries to swallow but it can’t, shifting against the blade.

Frightened, brown eyes slam shut when she feels a liquid beneath her elbow. Her own, warm blood. Pooling below her, and dripping from her body.

“What did _she_ teach you, huh?” bringing Becky back to reality, Lacey speaks with venom, breath hitting the other woman’s face. “What did Paige teach you?” she repeats.

Her lower lip quivers, fearful. Feeling like she’s bound to break down fully.

But she can’t give up, and she knows it. Images of her friends flash through her mind. Sporadic pictures of them, smiling and laughing. Bayley, holding a flower and convincing Sasha that she should put it in her hair. Charlotte, lecturing Sasha for playfully joking about something that a normal person probably shouldn’t. Becky, herself, watching it unfold before being endlessly roasted by the women she’s come to call family. Paige, nearby, watching them through some part of her lingering soul. Grinning at the redhead’s happiness, and being grateful that three women hold the necessary amount of love for the person she’d left behind. She’d be proud.

Against what Rhea said before, Paige would be proud of what Becky accomplished on the island. Friendship. Creating a makeshift family. Finding some form of happiness, and, in a way, finding herself. She’d be _beyond_ proud.

Her eyes close again, feeling Lacey’s muggy exhales hit her cheeks. Inconspicuously, her left hand twitches against her sword. Its handle, wiggling when her fingertips brush against it.

“Tell me!” Lacey shouts again.

This time, while feeling the sword further against her throat, she manages to choke out a response.

“She taught me that it’s okay to be scared and want to give up.”

“What?” a tiny laugh is given.

Trembling fingers feel their way to the sword’s looped handle. Swiveling, yet not making any sounds while Becky sucks in a breath.

“Nothin's stronger than being honest with yourself, and knowing what’s worth it,” she continues, having to take in two more, deep gasps of air. “Livin’s worth it. No matter what it takes.”

More confusion covers Lacey’s features. Using the distraction to her advantage, Becky gives her no notice before her left hand grabs the blade. Adjusting it in a single motion, she slices straight through a nearby rope. One that held a bag of treasure upwards near the ceiling. Becky waits for the impending event.

Then, as the blonde’s eyes move to the sound, she’s kicked to the left of Becky right when the bundle of heavy gold collapses. A knee, shoved straight into Lacey’s torso as it flops her onto her back, and she goes wide-eyed. For a moment, at least. After that, with the waterfall of golden trinkets, boxes, and coins collapsing onto the woman’s body, Becky isn’t able to see anything. She simply knows her fate: a final, wealthy demise for Lacey. Crushed beneath its contents with absolutely no room to survive such a heavy bundle of treasure. Smaller pieces of the gold trickle down the newly formed pile of findings. Becky, nearby, guarding her head and making sure she rolled away far enough to evade her own ending.

Successfully, she eases her head upward when she hears the rustling stop. A lifeless arm sticks out from beneath the treasure. A dead, blood-covered arm as the planks beneath the pile are even pounded into a shallow, wooden bowl. It gives Becky relief as much as it does grief, having to shake her head before pushing herself to her feet.

“Gotta get up,” she talks to herself, holding onto her left side.

Blood gushes out of her wound whenever she over-exerts herself. Seeping out from between her fingers and dripping along the extremities before she brushes them against her backside. Then, she resumes their position. Repeating the motion, keeping her hands dry enough to hold onto the cut’s area. Applying a modest amount of pressure, but not enough. It stings, when she does, and it makes her wish to collapse onto the floor. In fact, Becky falls to her knees a time or two on her way over to the vault door. The part of the room that has the least amount of flames, yet much more than it did earlier. Her breath is almost non-existent now, too. Not being able to take in air without it being tainted, or scarce. She feels like she’s at the highest elevation without an oxygen mask. Without anything to help her breathe. Her lungs scream for help, as well, though she’s not sure her voice would work if she tried to use it.

Leaning her back against the wall separating her from the ship’s main cabin, she slides downwards with a grimace. Blood being smeared against the wooden boards, like they remain covered in a red pool in the center of the room. Marking the scene of the crime, near the pile of treasure fallen on top of Lacey.

Sliding down, she falls onto her butt. Staying there, unmoving. Her chin lifts, head resting against the wall while she gives herself a pained smile. A smile of finishing it all. This chapter of her life, really. Even if she can’t keep her word when it comes to seeing her friends again, at least she’s finished it for them. At least she made sure they can live their lives without Lacey surprising them with more pain and misgivings. _Her_ pain and misgivings. At least she made it safe for Charlotte to live happily ever after, even without her.

Becky closes her eyes tightly. She grips her side and lets out a shaky breath that covers her agony. If she doesn’t die by the smoke clouding her lungs, or the fire trapping her body, the pain will be sure to end her chances. One way or another, she’s done for.

The thumping in her ears grows worse. Her brain wishing to exit her skull, pounding on its casing as her heart thumps just as much. Every organ in her body, wishing to break free. Wishing to taste clean air, and keep her blood pumping. She feels delusional, at the same time. Discolored shapes and twinkles float throughout the room whenever she tries to open her eyes. She even hears her voice being called by Charlotte. Her sweet voice, in the distance, kindly calling her name and trying to rouse her.

Becky frowns, shaking her head and grunting. Again, she has to wipe her hand against her pants. This time, there’s no use. There’s too much blood. She can hardly feel her hands, anyway.

“Becky━?”

It gets closer, this time actually vibrating the wood against her back. It comes with a cough, additionally.

Her frown intensifies, turning her head and waiting. Her matted hair sticks to the wood, also to her temple, having to lean forward and adjust so the damp strands come undone. She feels them against her lips, as well, and her forehead. By now, she knows she’s a mess. With her wound pooling blood, she’s not sure she cares. But it could be worse, right?

“Becky?”

This time, the woman’s voice is unmistakable. It’s real. God, it’s real.

“Charlotte?” she tries, having to clear her throat, afterwards.

On the other side of the wall, Charlotte’s mouth drops open when she hears the response from behind the vault door. She all but runs to it, shielding her face from the smoke before stupidly reaching for the metal prongs. Immediately, it singes her skin and she retracts her hands, having to shake them free of the pain with pinched-together teeth. Then, she internally lectures herself for the stupid decision, though giving herself a small reprieve when knowing that, when it comes to those you love, sometimes you make stupid decisions.

She shakes her head, then leans against the wooden wall. Raising her fist, she knocks on it. Not a second later, she’s responded to. Becky elbows the surface on the other side, and a smile breaks out across Charlotte’s face.

“Becks, you’re alive,” her eyes water, closing them tightly.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Becky manages to joke, coughing again. “What the hell are you doing here?” albeit relieved, she doesn’t stray from being annoyed with her partner. “I told you to leave.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” a sad grin stays on Charlotte’s face. “Becky, you’re the one thing worth risking my life over. And I’d do it again and again.”

The redhead’s eyes brim with tears. Loving her partner’s words, but, given the current scenario, feeling them sting deeply. After all the time they had to share their confessions ━ Becky’s tip-of-the-tongue “I love you” that never came out ━ it hurts to know that they choose to wholeheartedly feel it when she’s trapped. When she doesn’t know if she’ll see those ocean eyes again. Now, she’s not sure how long she has. She’s not sure if she has a minute, or an hour. And, beyond anything, she hates knowing that the historian has become so attached to someone who, within minutes, could be gone.

Becky shakes her head, changing the subject.

“The fire’s origin is in here,” a scratchy cough interrupts her speaking. “I don’t know━” this time, she coughs harder. “I can’t━”

Charlotte gives the sound a dreadful look, eyes roaming the area.

Where the treasure hunter sits, she adjusts her position against the wall. However, in the process, she notices the smaller drips of blood now on her right thigh. Misplaced, and not from her side wound. Droplets, falling freely. Then, she lifts her fingers to her nose, bringing them away so she’s able to see the fresh blood coming from her nostrils. An unfortunate side-effect of being exposed to so much dryness, and so much heat.

Despite the how or why, her eyes close again. Painfully so. She leans her head back, as well. Suddenly, her bottom lip begins to quiver, and her closed eyes shut further. As if she could curl into herself, with her muscles tightening up. Her chest heaves, at the same time, needing to let anything and everything out.

And, unlike every other time, she can’t help but begin to cry. Sob, more like, against the wall. Her teeth grit before having to suck in gasps of whatever fresh air she can find, rubbing the backs of her hands against her cheeks to rid herself of the tears. It’s no use, sadly, and the mixture of blood and water stays on her hands as she throws her fists against the ground. A miniature tantrum, not knowing how to fix herself. How to erase the pain, or avoid such a terrible fate. Upon her cheeks, the tears tread freely down paths of smudged blood and sweat.

Her mind thumps harder, and her eyes blur more than ever. She can’t see a thing aside from glowing orange, the floor ahead of her now engulfed in flames. The fire, now moving to consume Lacey’s body and the treasure piled on top of her. Creeping closer, like a fuse is trailing toward her.

Becky sniffles hard, and Charlotte listens from the other side of the wall. She closes her eyes just as much, letting herself cry in a similar way. Lesser than the other woman, but enough to feel her chest ache with sympathy. It’s a painful sound, even without the sight. Especially feeling so hopeless to help.

“Charlie, I don’t have a death wish,” the random, choked-up proclamation gets the blonde to lift her head, frowning at the words.

There’s a pause, then the following, heartbreaking statement.

“I don’t want to die.”

It’s cried out, tailed by a deep sob that gets Charlotte to release a shaky breath. She nods, however, and taps a lone finger against the wall. Forcing her pain aside for the sake of the Irish woman who, apparently, is beginning to give up. She can’t let that happen. No way.

“I meant what I said, Becks. I’m not going to watch that happen,” she comforts her partner, leaning her shoulder against the wall while getting into a crouched position. “I’m not going to _let_ that happen, okay? We’re getting out of here together, you and me. Say it.”

“Char━”

“Say. It.”

Inside the treasure room, she swallows the dryness within her throat. Wiping her nose once more, she nods as much as she can.

“You and me.”

“Good. Stay with me,” Charlotte mutters, scanning the area to see what’ll give her some leverage against the door. “Just stay with me,” she repeats, though starting to panic.

Frantically, the blonde looks around the room. Through the smoke, she can see very little. To make matters worse, at the pace her mind is going, it’s hard to formulate a solid plan of action. Before anything, her hand reaches for the gun in her holster. Bringing it to her eyes, looking between the firearm and the door. She shakes her head at the novice idea, knowing it would likely just ricochet off the metal. Looking at the wall, its boards are also too thick. Avery really didn’t want anyone getting into the space too easily, she muses.

“Need more firepower,” it’s muttered to herself, slapping her thigh before walking around the room. “Just a little more…”

That’s when she spots it.

Tucked into the corner of the room, pointed directly at the vault’s lefthand wall, is a clunky, black cannon. And, peering into the barrel, it’s fortunately loaded. She’ll have to adjust it accordingly, though, knowing that blowing through the wall could perhaps explode the entire room. It could release the heat and fire in one, swift eruption. It could, in turn, kill both of them. So, thinking deeply and looking around, she peers through one of the cabin’s portholes to see a glimmer of water on the other side. A reminder of where they are, and what’s beneath them. What is quite possibly their best escape, and her best shot.

The water.

“Becks,” two knuckles are knocked against the wall where the redhead’s voice emanated from earlier, “I want you to stay where you are, cover your ears, and keep your head protected. Okay?”

When she can’t find her voice, when she’s almost drifting off in physical weakness, Becky simply nods. Not remembering that the blonde can’t see her. However, to respond otherwise, she hits her elbow against the wall with the last, few drips of her strength. Her eyes feel fuzzy and so does her head, swaying in place against the wall before falling to her side and nimbly taking cover. Her arms rest limply, hands not closing, simply cradling her head as if she’s fallen asleep.

Outside the room, Charlotte’s panic spikes when she doesn’t get an answer. She runs back to the cannon, picks up a burning, wooden board, then looks at the fuse.

Slamming her eyes shut, she puts her plan into motion.

A fizz is heard, the spark disappearing. Then, with a quaking boom that feels as if it exploded the cave’s majority, the cannonball shoots through the floor. Breaking the ground between the treasure room and the main cabin, splitting it in half. On contact, the force collapses the ship’s middle portion as it implodes inwardly. Plunging it into the water, being pulled down by its midsection. Taking the treasure with it, the trinkets, the jewels, the swords, Lacey’s dead body. Most importantly, it takes both, living women with it.

In the blink of an eye, the lukewarm water swarms her body. She ignores it, realistically, ignoring the ringing in her ears as she gathers the wherewithal to open her eyes. To find her dying partner, floating feet ahead of her. Becky sinks slowly, lifelessly without moving a fraction. At the sight, the blonde swims fast through the orange-glowing water and grabs onto her partner. Keeping a firm arm around her waist, moving them outside the broken ship and into the cave’s body where the remaining masts begin to topple over. Like everything, they’re lit aflame, leaving smoke to filter into the air. Avery’s whole ship, engulfed in wild fire, ash, and embers that spark into the air. Lighting the whole cave like a giant torch.

Around their surfaced bodies, Charlotte watches the debris and flaming, wooden pieces rain from the sky. Papery ash, too. All collapsing with the rest of the ship, also with chunks of rock that topple out from the cave walls. It’s certainly a sight to behold, she thinks while keeping Becky propped up in her arms.

However, as bigger slabs of wood and those tall masts begin to sway in their direction, she knows it’s time to swim.

“Becks, wake up,” beginning to kick her legs as much as she can, she speaks into Becky’s damp hair.

Brown eyes flutter open, little by little. Hardly, but enough to know she’s still there. Charlotte has to refrain from smiling. It doesn’t work, but she tries to stop herself from looking so relieved. A breath escapes her lips.

“You have to help, baby,” the historian breathes out again, keeping her mouth close to her partner’s ear. “Keep waking up.”

Her eyes flicker behind her eyelids more than before. Hearing the other woman’s voice in her ear, so soft and comforting. She tries to kick her feet, taking a moment to actually manage a modest amount of force. Below the water, she feels her blood warming against her skin. A grimace forms, but she keeps going. Meanwhile, her head is shielded by the blonde’s arm in case any stray rocks fall from above.

“There you go,” there’s a mild happiness in Charlotte’s voice, feeling Becky help swim them to safety.

Soon enough, the fresh daylight stings their eyes whereas the fiery debris and smoke dissipate. They continue paddling beneath the archway of the cavern, moving through the shallow pond-like body of water until they’re at the cusp of the inlet. All while knowing that their plane should be waiting behind a rocky outcrop on the right side of the bay. Before that, they’ll have to trudge through the hardened, cold sand while avoiding the palm trees.

A simple enough task, or so the historian thought before pulling her partner from the water. Suddenly, for the first time, she notices the woman’s gushing wound. Her eyes widen, mouth agape. Stunned, completely, with her lower lip trembling.

“Oh, God━”

“I’m fine,” Becky tries to say, wincing hard. “We have to go.”

In spite of her inner ramblings telling her to stop running, to stop putting unnecessary pressure on Becky’s limbs, she knows that the redhead has a point. They’re sitting ducks, in the open. So, against her better judgement, Charlotte nods at the desperation in the Irish woman’s voice.

An arm is wrapped around Becky’s waist within an instant. Helping her walk along the shore as a trail of dripping blood is left in their wake. Sinking into the sand, and creating wet patches of burgundy within their footsteps. Not for long, though. Because, rather quickly, her wound proves to be a pain for more than the obvious reasons. It proves to be a massive hindrance to their progress, and to their idea of keeping themselves moving.

She nearly collapses, face-first, when the strain becomes too much on her torso. When her cut shifts too much, and the tender skin nudges past her ripped shirt periodically. When it sticks to the fibers, as well, then pulls away. Her teeth grind together in agony, almost falling completely forward before she’s caught by the historian.

“Okay, okay,” Charlotte breathes out, holding onto her. “Listen, this is gonna hurt, but I have to pick you up. We have to keep moving, like you said.”

Becky weakly nods.

“Alright.”

Carefully, the blonde nods at nothing in particular. Easing her partner upwards, knowing where to slip her arms around her partner’s body. Straightening the treasure hunter’s back so two arms can be cradled around her torso and the backs of her knees. With a contorting face, she picks Becky up into a spur-the-moment bridal-carrying position. The same way she’d carried the redhead when she was out cold, after escaping one of Lacey’s encampments.

The Irish woman whines when her wound scrunches up, hissing at the pain and curling into Charlotte’s neck. The hand slung around the tall blonde’s shoulders scratches at her skin, as well. Finding something to cling onto without hurting both of them, in the process. Ocean eyes stare ahead, though her mouth stays open with fumbling breaths.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry.”

She ignores the burning tears behind her eyes at Becky’s pain. The automatic reaction toward a loved one suffering a great deal of tragedy. Charlotte grits her teeth and holds the woman firmly, rarely shifting her arms. Rarely disturbing the massive cut in her side. Hoping to keep everything as easy as possible while treading along the bay’s stiff stand. While also ignoring the pull in her calves by running upon uneven land.

They have to keep moving, though. Who knows where Lacey’s men are hiding, hoping to carry on their boss’ mission before taking the gold away.

Rounding the corner of the outcrop, the blonde’s posture all but breaks in half when she doesn’t see the plane anywhere. She stands still, eyes frantic. Not only because of the lack of getaway, but also because, as she looks past the space, she spots soldiers running down a nearby hill. Shouts of anger given in the women’s direction, with Charlotte close to turning around via overwhelming panic. She has no capability to protect them when she’s holding onto the Irish woman, and there’s no way she’s letting Becky stand on her own two feet. Not when she almost collapsed, not even a minute ago.

So, in an annoyance-derived decision, her feet move to turn around. To retrace their steps, and run back to the inlet. To find somewhere to hide, even if it’s stuck beneath the rocky outcrop’s miniature cave. The indent in its wall, hardly a hiding place yet a big enough alcove to tuck Becky in before fending off their enemies. Another option being that they could plan their course to get out of here, then find their partners that have seemingly disappeared again.

As she takes a single step backwards, ready to do all of the above, they’re abruptly given an opening away from the soldiers. Courtesy of the scoped-out plane, circling the mountain and coming closer with its motor buzzing above like a massive dragonfly.

Sasha stands there, in the open door of it, holding an RPG that takes out a cluster of soldiers in one, erupting blow of sand. It shoots upwards, powdery dust disguising everything and creating a makeshift cloud of grain. Something that ━ should it not kill the men ━ will certainly manufacture a smokescreen.

Charlotte nearly cries in gratitude, seeing the plane lower itself to the very edge of the sea. Not wasting any time, the blonde scurries herself and Becky forward. Holding onto her tightly, and slamming her boots through the water as a slushing noise fills the air.

“Are you good to stand on the rail?” her question is directed at Becky, the redhead humming while reaching for Sasha’s extended hand.

Behind her, the historian gingerly gives her partner a boost into the plane, Sasha simultaneously pulling her up with two hands.

“Careful, she’s bleeding a lot,” they all hear the worry in Charlotte’s voice.

“They’re getting away!”

A shout comes from behind her, the blonde whipping around to see how close they are. She doesn’t have a good chance to react, though. Because, right as she twists around to glimpse at the pack of remaining foes, Sasha yanks her into the plane. Once she’s inside, Bayley rushingly takes off with an inclining hum from the engine. Bullets pepper against its metallic outside before they’re out of reach. Denting the exterior, however not penetrating the walls. Soon, they stop completely, and Sasha watches their altitude increase as the men turn to ants on the sand. Left behind on the beach, all able to scoure for their boats and take home the treasure. As long as they have their gold, Lacey’s men won’t be after them. That’s above their pay grade.

Toying with the plane’s controls, the brunette seems in her element. Flying with ease, and checking the gauges. Making sure everything is up to par, as her face remains stoic.

Meanwhile, Charlotte eases Becky onto the padded bench sat against the wall, giving her space next to the window so she can sit comfortably and watch them depart away from the snapping turtle’s mouth. The Irish woman’s head tilts backwards against the shiny, grey wall, breathing in the fresh air happily without speaking.

The historian brushes some damp hairs from her face, then lowers her eyes to the bloody wound. Her stained shirt, too, and pants all covered in reddened blotches. The hunter’s hands are even a faint shade of pink, also her nostrils’ outer edge, despite the water washing most of her blood off. She makes a face, then looks at Sasha.

“Do we have a rag, or━or a compress, or something?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” the mercenary speaks sympathetically, quickly finding a medical kit tucked into one side of the plane.

It’s set on her lap and opened, speeding hands rifling through it before finding a good size piece of padding to hold against the wound. Charlotte nods at the fabric, sitting on Becky’s right so she can wrap her arm around the redhead’s waist again. There, she holds it against the puncture, helping it clot easier than if it was exposed. Even so, they know she lost too much blood, plus dealt with added stress from the fire. At this point, the Irish woman is hardly coherent. She’s hardly there, or reacting aside from with hisses and whimpers. Her eyes slamming shut, as well. Eyelids contorting with her nose scrunching up, once the padding is pressed more firmly against it.

“I’m sorry,” the historian whispers, leaning closer and kissing her temple. “You’ll be okay. _We’ll_ be okay.”

Sasha gives the sight a sad smile. Not wishing to disturb them, she walks away to sit next to Bayley. To achieve some of her own comfort, and check on the brunette. And, once she’s turned to, she gets just that.

Her solemn expression is mirrored, Bayley then offering a hand to her partner. A delicate gesture that Sasha accepts with ease. Her thumb rubs across the mercenary’s knuckles, hoping to provide some calmness as they brave the extensive ride back to the mainland.

 

* * *

 TUES., 5:04 P.M.

* * *

A tired, brown gaze looks around the plane.

For the most part, they’ve been silent. Collecting their thoughts, and letting the trip’s events sink in. More than anything, the idea that they’ve finally escaped that deathtrap of an island. After a shipwreck, many wrong turns, storms, mending of relationships, formed friendships, gunfights, collapsing towers, and so forth… they’ve escaped that godforsaken piece of land. Sure, she might have come out with a stab wound, and a lot more mental grievances that will sure take some time to heal, but they’re all alive. They’ve made it, after everything.

Every now and again, Becky feels a blue-green gaze check on her. Charlotte, making sure her partner is still breathing. Still aware of her surroundings, too. Still awake, more importantly. The first time Becky closed her eyes for longer than a minute, she felt a nudge against her shoulder. Then, the lecture _“I’m not letting you sleep right now.”_

Becky managed to give her a tiny grin. One that caused the blonde’s eyes to water, nonetheless. Then, Charlotte’s free hand reached for hers. Entwining their fingers loosely, and resting on Becky’s thigh.

She knows they’ve all been worried. Admittedly, if they heard her inner musings from earlier, they’d be ten times as nervous. Back in that cavern, she wasn’t sure she’d make it. Even when first sitting down in this plane, she figured her chances were slim to none. At least, then, she would’ve been with her friends if anything were to happen. At least they would've been able to say goodbye.

But, now, her body feels oddly calm. Not in a sense that she’s willing to give up, but at ease. Like she knows she can fight more now. Like she has a better chance of going on now that she’s come to terms with this obsession, and she’s faced the demon head-on. Unfortunately, it just meant putting herself directly in the line of fire to find Avery’s fate, and to make sure her own wasn’t the same.

Even so, it’s time she acknowledges what happened. And, it’s time to put this trip to bed.

“Thank you,” she suddenly speaks up with a hoarseness, starling Charlotte who frowns, and Sasha whose head whips around. _“All_ of you,” her tired gaze looks between the three women when Bayley peers over her shoulder. “I know there’s so much more to say, and no amount of _thank you_ ’s will cut it, but…”

“Well, thank _you_ for not dying on us,” the mercenary jokes, Becky exhaling a laugh through her nostrils. “Charlotte would’ve been a mess to get out of there.”

The historian rolls her eyes.

“She’s the whole reason I’m still here, admittedly,” it’s said through a deep breath, coughing a bit before clearing her sore throat. “Can’t really tease her, at the moment.”

This time, Charlotte smirks. Sasha smiles between the two, her gaze floating down to her boots as she worries at her lower lip. Then, she rubs the back of her neck, glancing at Becky.

“So, I don’t want to ruin this fun-fun escape, but I think we’ve all been wondering…” there’s a pause. “What happened back there? Where’s Lacey?”

“Dead,” the answer is simple. “Though, she got her gold,” her eyebrows raise.

“And Rhea?”

“She’s not a threat to us anymore.”

Bayley fully turns to her this time, being the same amount of confused as everyone else. Becky, seeing their inquisitive reactions, expands on her statement.

“I don’t think she ever wanted to do what she’s done. I kept saying this wasn’t the Rhea I knew. It wasn’t,” she shakes her head. “There was something…” her mouth opens and closes, having to restart her sentence. “Back there, both of us with Lacey… she kept saying something. A name. Toni.”

Charlotte studies Becky’s profile. How she seems contemplative, yet certain with sunken-in eyes. Like she’s made up her mind on the subject.

“Whoever-it-is must be important to her. Remember how I said she’d become strangely agitated, back then?” the treasure hunter turns to Charlotte, licking her chapped lips. “I don’t know what happened, but I have a few good guesses.”

No response.

The blonde blinks gently, lost in her own head. Hearing Becky’s voice full of such belief, such vehement drive to understand Rhea… it’s intriguing. It brings on a memory she’d been ignoring, since she rescued her partner.

Back in that cavern, after she’d dove into the waves of the ship’s docking site, there was a moment where she confronted Rhea. Not verbally, and not exactly face to face. They were standing apart, the woman spotting her from afar. Watching Charlotte creep onto one of the mossy islands within the cavern as her small boat stalled in place. Minutes prior, the blonde had heard the echoing noises of a scuffle coming from the main chamber. A splash, after that, as if someone were tossed into the water. Silence followed. So, as she looked into Rhea’s eyes, she acknowledged that the woman had recently fended off one of the soldiers. One of what they previously assumed to be her fellow colleagues within Lacey’s militia.

But, alongside Rhea’s obvious exhaustion and determination to escape, there was something different. A mutual understanding that they didn’t have to ensue battle against one another anymore. A white flag, of sorts, on both sides. Neither of them let their guard down, no. In fact, the historian raised her chin in case Rhea opted to try anything against her. She was ready to throw her overboard, then sprint to save Becky. Wherever she was.

Smoke exuded from the vessel nearby. At the time, Charlotte wasn’t panicked. There was a tiny wonderance if her treasure hunter was stuck inside, but not enough of a hint to go on. Becky is savvy, she thought. She would’ve escaped the burning ship with no problem. Standing there, against Rhea, Charlotte took her time in staring back at the woman. She even tilted her head to the side, gritted her teeth, and narrowed her eyes. Glaring at Rhea, and feeling her curiosity spike when no move was made. As a matter of fact, she swears that Rhea even shook her head slightly. A sign that she wasn’t bound to try anything.

Soon, her vacant eyes drifted to the burning vessel, then back to Charlotte ━ A.K.A. the hint that the historian was waiting for. Finally, Rhea nodded her head in the direction of the ship. A silent telling that Charlotte should get moving ━ _quickly._

And that was that.

Charlotte didn’t need another clue, and her eyes widened while Rhea sped off.

Even so, that means Rhea was aware of where Becky was. How she got there, perhaps. Moreover, it means that she didn’t even attempt to save her, or help. Frankly, Charlotte is even confused as to why the woman cared if Becky ended up rescued. She’s confused as to why Rhea assisted, in the end.

“I’ll be honest, I had a little run-in with Rhea on my way to finding you,” Charlotte reveals, eyes doe-like. “Actually, she’s partly the reason why I found you when I did.”

Becky bows her head, peering at Charlotte through her eyelashes.

“I’m not trying to change your mind, Becks, but if she knew where you were, that means she left you to die.”

“I’m not saying she hasn’t done the worst of the worst,” she tries, whispering. “I’m not saying any of you have to forgive her. Hell, I don’t even think _I_ can forgive her,” Becky’s shoulders tighten, then slump. “But, for what it’s worth, before she left, she said she didn’t care if I made it out or not. I could tell she was serious. Not in a villainous way, but as if she knew I had a chance of escapin’ and survivin’,” her teeth nip at her inner cheek for a moment, taking in a large breath. “So, I’m going on that.”

“You’re taking her word? After everything?” Sasha doesn’t sound judgmental, nor annoyed, but genuinely curious.

“Yes,” it’s straight to the point, answered with a half-smile. “If she truly wanted me dead, she wouldn’t have played games. She had a gun, right there, and she would’ve used it. For that, I have to believe her.”

It seems to be enough for her friends, each of them nodding in an assortment of reactions. Even the brunette, up front, who has been silent for most of this trip.

Becky notices her quiet nature, easing her head forward without moving much.

“Y’know, I didn’t realize you’re trained in flying planes, too,” she gets a smirk from over the woman’s shoulder. “Don’t remember it being on your résumé.”

“It’s not,” the response is neither here nor there. “I’m just sort of _winging_ it.”

The Irish woman beams, then whines partly.

“Oh, how happy I am to be alive so I could hear that,” her amusement dies down, leaning her head back. “Glad we’ve worked on your humor since we met.”

“You were kidding, though, right?” Charlotte cuts in, a hopeful grin toying at her lips.

“I know how to fly a plane, don’t worry,” it’s dull, paired with an eye-roll. “Landing it is a different story,” the addition is said beneath her breath.

“We have enough parachutes,” the mercenary looks at the wall, counting the bags. “Hopefully this ride ends up smoother than when you drove the Jeep, though,” a smirk is flashed in Bayley’s direction, getting an equally as teasing expression.

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Mm, no.”

The brunette chuckles, “Well, wait ‘til I take you around in one of my race cars.”

“Ha, don’t push your luck, Softy,” a hand is waved in her direction, brushing off the offer.

“Don’t you mean ‘Speedy’?”

Again, she smirks.

“I meant exactly what I said.”

The other woman smiles, facing the sky again in attempt to focus.

Behind them, Becky revels in their banter while feeling Charlotte pull her closer. Turning to the blonde, she offers her a light, thankful grin. A sleepy one, at that, but full of sentiment. Full of authentic love, no matter how physically afflicted she feels. Another, elongated kiss is pressed to the redhead’s temple, Becky humming, then breathing out through pursed lips. Making a funny noise, in the process.

“I’m just sorry, after all that, we left empty-handed.”

Sasha and Bayley make slanted expressions, though nothing more. They’re simply grateful to be alive, and to have the experience. No matter how chaotic it was. Charlotte, on the other hand, actually refutes the claim.

“Who said we left empty-handed?”

“God, none of that ‘we gained a valuable friendship’ crap, please,” the mercenary drones, rolling her eyes ━ albeit also smiling.

“Oh, I’d never.”

It’s spoken through a shade of smugness, Charlotte carefully shifting along the padded bench and reaching into her back pocket. As their eyes go wide, she reveals a bundle of gold, pirate coins, accompanied by smaller jewels. An assortment of the bounty, gifting them each with a good chunk of change if they were to sell them. At least twenty million, per woman. Forty, perhaps, to the right buyer. Sasha breathes out, and Bayley’s eyes go wide, as well. In fact, she has to remind herself to keep her eyes locked on the clouds. Becky, otherwise, chuckles while looking between the coins and her partner’s keen grin.

“Charlie, you continue to surprise me,” the Irish woman says cheekily, trapping her tongue between her teeth for a brief second. “Historian turned pirate.”

“It’s a good look, isn’t it?” she flirts openly, nudging the redhead’s shoulder. “I couldn’t fit the whole ship in my pocket, nor did I have the time, but… I’d hate to see it all go to waste.”

Becky beams at her sneaky nature, staring at the blonde. After a handful of seconds, she’s gradually faced. Then, the hunter shakes her head before leaning closer to peck her on the corner of the lips. She wishes to lean closer and kiss her mouth, too, which she’s on the brink of doing.

Before they’re interrupted, that is. Nearby, Sasha forcibly clears her throat. A reminder that they’re not alone, and that she’s about to be a pain when it comes to their couple-like tendencies. Charlotte looks at the mercenary, the purple-haired woman’s eyebrows raising in a pointed yet playful lecture. Becky wishes to laugh at the outright annoyance Charlotte gives the other woman, the eye-roll that’s tailed by a glare, though she’s more so attentive when Sasha asks her ensuing question.

“So, when’s our next family vacation?”

“Mm, I believe I called it a tropical vacation,” Becky’s correction is given after a hum, swaying when they hit a brief period of turbulence.

“Fine, when’s our next tropical, family vacation?” the mercenary plays into it, and the Irish woman’s mouth drops open in an amused, childish manner.

“Guys, I think Pinky likes me.”

The only reaction Sasha is able to give is a laugh. She can’t even roll her eyes or brush off the teasing. Admittedly, it’s nice to hear Becky continuously joke, even in light of her side still bleeding. Even in light of her scratchy throat, and her cracked voice.

“D’ah,” the hunter ducks her head, then puffs out her cheeks, “looks like I’m not retiring anytime soon.”

“That’s the spirit,” Charlotte muses, nudging her thigh. “There’s hope for you, yet, Becky Lynch.”

A smile is given, broken by a sigh.

“So, I’m thinking we can start off small,” adjusting her hand just barely, the blonde cozies up further to her partner. “Say… Lost Tusk of Ganesh?”

 _“‘Small’?”_ Becky chokes out, aghast. “That’s your idea of small?”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Bayley tosses over her shoulder, wearing an intrigued expression.

“India, right?” Sasha’s smug grin is similarly interested in the idea.

“India _is_ right,” the historian replies smoothly.

Meanwhile, brown eyes bounce between all of them. Listening to the conversation, yet hardly contributing. Her lips stay parted, eyebrows furrowed in a modest, teasing desperation to get them to reconsider. Hell, she just barely scraped by on this trip. Her side is still bleeding, she should remind them. Simultaneously, it causes her heart to swell with overwhelming content. Overwhelming pride, and happiness to know that, from now on, she won’t be on her own with such unrestricted excitement. With such insane adventures, and, when it comes specifically to Charlotte, reckless goose-chases.

Still, she can’t help but turn to the tall blonde. Eyeing her up and down, the face of judgement keeping her mouth open with little to no words or sounds escaping her lips. Finally, she breathes out while wide-eyed, staring at the floor.

“I’ve created a damn monster, is what I’ve done,” it’s more so muttered to herself. “Or a pack of ‘em.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not excited,” Sasha pokes at her, leaning back against the seat while waiting for Becky to attempt refuting it again.

Except, contradicting the mercenary’s initial assumption, Becky doesn’t bother denying it. Slowly, a sense of happiness creeps onto her face as she relents. Having to nod, and suck up a large breath before being honest.

“Let me recover from this trip and then I’ll stop pretending,” her smile persists. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

A stretch of silence filters through the compact plane. A quietude only interrupted by the aircraft’s engine, and Bayley occasionally tinkering with the controls. She hums to herself while doing it, too.

Another grin stretches across Becky’s lips when she hears the sound, feeling like that’s all she can do now that she’s back with her friends.

It causes her to lean her head back again. Swaying with the plane’s occasional bumps, like before, while staring at the ceiling. Breathing happily through her throat, albeit still healing from the endless smoke and fire. The cut on her neck, too, that’ll leave more mental wounds than she’d like to admit. She’s sure that, in the future, Charlotte will plead with her to attend therapy. Alongside that, she’s sure that she’ll brush it off and pretend that she doesn’t need it. Truthfully, she does. But one thing is for sure: she’s relieved as hell that she’s still alive. And, now that she’s conquered such a massive obsession ━ not to mention her drive to avenge Paige against those who’d wronged them ━ she feels ready to actually, well, _live._

A sudden pressure is felt against the top of her head. Lifting her gaze, she sees Charlotte leaning against her. It makes her feel even more at ease, at home, closing her eyes with the blonde’s fingertips twitching against the compress that’s held atop her wound. Nonetheless, that sense of ease grows whenever she remembers that the historian is sat next to her. That they’re on the same page, and leaving the island as… something more. Luckily, now, they have all the time in the world to figure out just what that “something more” is. Becky plans on it. If you were to ask Charlotte, she’d say the same.

“I’ve been meaning to mention…” Sasha’s voice gets both women’s attention, Becky and Charlotte looking at the mercenary to see another, smug glint in her eyes. “Are those actual _battle_ wounds, or…?”

At her quirked eyebrow ━ her uncanny entertainment, so obvious and telling ━ they have to think about what she’s referring to. She notices, as well, pointing to her own neck and flashing them a tight-lipped smile. Remembering their steamy night together, Becky purses her lips while feeling Charlotte’s mouth opening in attempt to respond, though nothing comes out. Then, the historian has to press her tongue to her inner cheek, and her partner otherwise remains silent.

Up front, the only person to react is Bayley. A snicker is given to Sasha’s lack of tact, shaking her head while turning to see the teased women blushing.

The mercenary, sighing, ultimately answers herself.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Define "battle wounds," Sash...
> 
> How are we feeling? Relieved? Nervous? Happy? Sad? All of the above? I'm personally a mix of all, but now I'm not alone in those feelings. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I'VE HAD MOST OF THIS DIALOGUE WRITTEN? MOST OF THESE IMAGES THOUGHT-UP? The sadness? The heartbreak? The STABBING? The line "I don't want to die"??? [Becky voice] Goodness.
> 
> On a more serious note, let's take some time (a lot of it) to discuss Rhea and Lacey. How are we feeling about them now? The same? Different? I wanted to clarify things, just a bit more. For Lacey, she's always been the big bad. She is a blatant villain, however smart. I wanted to portray her as someone who ultimately can acknowledge that she's a bad person (unwilling to change that), and that Becky is skilled. Lacey is tactical. Her downfall was primarily cockiness and greed, which was obvious. She's the Avery of this story. 
> 
> Rhea, on the other hand, is... hm. It's difficult to say, for me. It might look differently to y'all because you've endured the stress of her actions more than I have (since I wrote them), but my main objective was to make her a conflicted character. This was in no way a "redemption arc," at least not in my view. She's not a good person, wbk. BUT she is one of those characters who would claim, "I didn't have a choice," against Becky who would say, "You always have a choice." To Rhea, after years of trying to help Lacey so she could earn back Toni, she found Becky on the island and suddenly that was her out. That was her key to getting Toni back. So she became desperate, and did whatever it took -- even going against her moral code. I want to say she truly did care for Becky and Paige, back in Panama. Until then, treasure hunting was merely a game for Rhea. She was having fun! That's why, once Paige died, she catered to Becky's silence and let her be quiet for a bit. Until Lacey took Toni, and then suddenly it was a different game. Suddenly, she needed Becky to get her ass into gear. A selfish thing, considering everything she did, but I think Rhea did put it best when she admitted she'd sacrifice Becky for Toni, any day. Alas, that doesn't mean she wanted Becky to die, once she found out her alternative route of trapping them. Becky was right: Rhea knew she could survive, and, once Rhea came face to face with Charlotte, she made sure her chances of living grew larger. But, again, she *did* leave her to die, in the first place. Thus, conflicted character. SIDE NOTE: Again, to anyone who didn't enjoy Rhea's existence here due to Rhea's irl mistakes/comments, I apologize for the discomfort, as I had it all down before that and I didn't want to stray from what I believed was my fic's major story.
> 
> That aside, Becky's obsession has come to a head. She understands it, and she knows that she did something stupid in order to meet the demon face to face. Will it help her, in the long run? We'll have to see the fallout of this venture -- and we will. For now, it seems she's happy with her friends, even with a bleeding side.
> 
> Which reminds me... this was arguably a lengthier goodbye for them. Compared to the next chapter, this wrapped up a lot of their on-island personalities, and we'll have to see them give their actual goodbyes within the next two updates (and, yes, I manage to sneak more Baysha/4HW into more than just the next chapter, you're welcome). Next chapter is probably the shortest chapter to date (6K, damn), so that's... something. It's sad, I know, but we've made it through some of the hardest instances in this story. We're not out of the woods, yet, though. You'll see another, obnoxious bump in the road for Charlynch. I'll say this: We all overthink ourselves into a hole sometimes, don't we? It'll be no different for the two of them.
> 
> I hope this "boss fight" chapter was one for the ages, or at least something that wrapped up this story's action adventure nicely. It took a lot out of me -- REPEATEDLY -- but I needed to make it so jam-packed to stay true to everything I could. Next chapter, we can calm down, we can watch these four realize that they're safe now, and, after that, we'll have some Charlynch time before this fic -- against my wishes -- comes to a close. 
> 
> Thanks for enduring this kerfuffle with me. Also, if you read this entire author's note, in the words of Rhea... "Kudos."


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to first and foremost thank everyone for the kind words (the lengthy reviews, too!) about last chapter and this story in general. I won't include my sappiness until the very end of this story (some in the bottom author's note here, actually), however I do want to thank everyone for their support. It's been endlessly evident throughout this story, even sometimes when AO3 didn't notify y'all when I posted a new chapter (*side-eyes AO3*). So, thank you, thank you, thank you. It's what keeps me going.
> 
> And it's what'll keep me going until the very end of this story! So, let's get on with saying some goodbyes. (We can cry, while we're at it).

MAROANTSETRA, MADAGASCAR

TUES., 6:27 P.M.

* * *

The ambiance of a brisk, ocean breeze wafts through the dockside air. Waves crashing against the stone wall, water droplets escaping their containment and occasionally flicking against the pavement. The various noises of a crowded, market town echoing in the distance, yet otherwise unseen. Above them, the sky turns a soft blue fading to pink. Not yet sunset, however inviting the evening into their realm. Pushing away the warm, sunny elements while preparing for dusk. The clouds aren’t poofy, either. Not anymore, like they were back on the island. Now, they stretch themselves thin across the sky as if you were to pull apart cotton-candy without breaking the strands. As if they’re hanging on by threads, and refusing to split. Creating a thin mask atop the sun, blurring its shape and keeping the air crisp.

Overall, it’s a wonderful atmosphere. Something inviting, and reminding you that you’ve endured events that were ━ in a blunt term ━ horrific. Something bittersweet, in other ways. Especially hearing the birds chirp in the few, distant trees. Not the same chirping they’d heard on the island, not the cuckooing, or the tropical environment that was brought on by an overload of varying facets. The flapping of the birds’ wings is different, too. Distorted, almost. Foreign, in a sense. The air smells less fern-like, as well. Less beach-like. This time, it’s more cluttered. More polluted, only by the existence of actual civilization surrounding them. The broken-down warehouse where, behind it, they’ve landed their private plane and linger around its body. The cloudy, musky sea, crashing into the aforementioned stone wall. Taking crumbles of pebbles into the waves, and letting them sink to the bottom as grey fish avoid the little rocks.

It’s all so bittersweet, the blonde thinks again. That constant word being a valid description for everything she feels. The emotional tug of war in regards to her perception of things. Of their newfound arrival back at the mainland, and away from such a mysterious place. No more tropical paradise, while also no more gunfights. No more exotic wildlife, thriving plants, waterfalls, incredible scenery, and so forth, yet no more explosions, or traps, or collapsing towers, or… _pain._ A trade-off of epic proportions, truly.

Even so, it’s not all bad. No matter what type of estranged serenity they’ve given up to survive enough to get back here, she knows there’s room to experience new sights. _Together._ She reminds herself that, perhaps, they can take an actual vacation soon. Herself and the redhead who nimbly maneuvers her aching, bloody body within the plane. Maybe their friends would join them, too; Sasha, currently wandering closer to the stone wall with her arms stretching above her, and Bayley, who tries her hardest to barter with the owner of this Madagascan warehouse. Hoping to convince him not to ask about where they acquired the random aircraft. Hoping to sell it to him, using some spare wads of local currency they’d found within Lacey’s plane. For once, they thank the nasty blonde.

A smile curves her lips as footsteps approach behind her.

“Paid off the dude,” Bayley sounds smug, proud of herself, while brushing by Charlotte’s back.

“You’re a real pirate now, Softy,” Becky appears in the plane’s doorway, wincing while keeping the compress firmly against her side.

With every bit of movement, a small amount of blood seeps out. Continuously, and only stopping little by little. Not entirely, however. Something tells her that it won’t fully cease until the puncture is stitched up.

The historian shakes her head slowly, a staggered breath exiting her nostrils as she reaches out for her partner.

“Here,” she presents her hands so she can pick her up like on the beach, the treasure hunter forcing a pout at the borderline assumption.

It’s a pout that claws to hang onto her independence. A blatant back-hand at Charlotte’s presumption that she’ll so-willingly be carried off the plane. And, honestly, it’s an expression that, in any other circumstance, the tall blonde would giggle at.

“I’ve got it,” making a _“back up”_ motion at the other woman, her voice cracks in the middle, still rasped from the fire’s dryness.

Letting the Irish woman realize that she really _doesn’t_ “got it,” Charlotte’s eyebrows raise as she takes a step back. Hands set in a surrendering motion, to match. Pointedly staring at Becky who makes a thinking face, forehead creased, first easing her left leg down from the plane’s three-foot step to the confines of its outer bar. No avail, and she retracts her leg. Pausing for five seconds, she then tries her right side, but that’s even worse. She nearly falls forward, in the end.

Sighing through her nose, she hangs her head. Giving up on the task, and feeling embarrassed about it. Also flashing the blonde a sheepish expression. Against her guesses that she’ll be given one of Charlotte’s infamous _“I told you so”_ stares, the blonde merely laughs while shaking her head. Without hesitation, the same two, gentle hands are offered to her partner. This time, the invitation is accepted, although not lacking the prior reluctance.

Similarly to back on the island, Becky’s right hand curls against the back of the historian’s neck as she allows herself to be picked up. Carried from the plane, semi-comfortably leaning against her partner’s chest. Except, unlike on the beach, she’s wholly awake and coherent enough to experience it. Against her own pleasure, that is. As she’s carried, a playfully annoyed focus burns into Charlotte’s temple. Bothered that she can’t do simple tasks on her own, like stepping out from a plane. The blonde ignores it with a faded smirk on her face, holding onto the other woman while taking a few steps away from the aircraft.

“Best not get used to this, Your Majesty,” if her pestered features weren’t enough, there’s an audible glare within the redhead’s voice.

Charlotte giggles at her outright displeasure and insecurities as her independence is tampered with, not offering a rebuttal while setting her partner down. Becky’s left hand stays pressed to her wound, in the meantime. Making sure to not move it away, even just to sneak a peek at how it’s healing ━ or probably _not_ healing. At least her lightheadedness has alleviated, plus the acute nausea she’d acquired from her period of drained energy.

Finally standing face to face, they share a brief moment of eye contact. A pair of smiles, too, before Charlotte turns back to the aircraft. Becky’s backpack is slid out from the floor, the blonde throwing it over her own shoulder so she can carry it for her partner.

“Walk slowly, and keep that tight to your cut,” her repetitive instructions are given caringly yet nervously, speaking to the redhead whose gaze roams the premises.

She can still hardly walk, though, which is why she barely moves a step from where Charlotte leaves her. Becky stands there, teetering back and forth while staying put. Swaying, more like. Sunken-in, brown eyes stare off at Sasha and Bayley, the two enjoying the calmness of the ocean together as they stand near the stubby, stone wall. It causes her to smile, just enough for Charlotte to spot the light in her eyes. The hope, brighter than anything within.

Unfortunately, when she tries to take a step closer to the ocean, herself, her posture falters. She can’t move much, and indulging in something so simple ━ like a closer, ocean view ━ has become an actual undertaking. Becky’s gaze saddens, looking down at her feet. The historian gives her a slanted, sad smile.

“We should get you looked at, ASAP,” observing the reddened fabric by tilting her head, her eyes drift up to see Becky already negating the idea. “The sooner you’re checked out, the quicker you’ll get better,” she tries convincing her partner, consistently being dismissed.

A huff exits the back of Becky’s throat, trying her hardest to wave away the notion of being examined. The notion of being taken care of, holding the underlying rejection. Charlotte can tell.

“I can handle it,” the Irish woman’s attitude holds a certain irony that displays she sincerely _cannot_ handle it on her own, and she knows it without wanting to own the idea ━ something that her partner doesn’t stray away from revealing, even vaguely.

“Becks,” by her begging yet pointed tone, the redhead already detects the oncoming lecture, and her eyes lift to Charlotte’s. “You didn’t lose your humanity when we left that place,” there’s a faint grin behind her eyes, twitching one corner of her lips upward. “Let me take care of you here, too.”

Studying her features, Becky detects the unbridled passion and dedication exuding the woman in front of her. She notices that she means it, and that she genuinely wants to make sure everything is okay. Whether it be between them now that everything is all said and done, or simply on Becky’s side of things. Her health, above every other aspect. It’s endearing, the hunter thinks. It makes her feel important. Less disappointing, like she always felt before they left for the island. Sometimes _on_ the island, come to think of it. Now, she feels worth it. Even unspokenly, Charlotte makes her feel worth it.

So, allowing her emotions to run rampant, her eyes begin to glisten. She has to bow her head to escape the heavying tears, sniffling harshly before they’re cleared. Her gaze lifts, head partly tilted with a nerve-stricken smile on her face. One that’s resulted from her next question, and the historian’s array of plausible answers to it.

“Will you be leaving after?” even when she speaks, she’s choked up ━ a sound that makes Becky want to slam her eyes shut in self-directed annoyance.

She doesn’t expect the immediate, lovable smile that she’s faced with, at the question. At her worries, really. Likewise, it makes her partner feel an equal amount of wanted. An equal amount of being worth it.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, yet,” the confession is short, coming with the minute shrug of her shoulders. “I’ll just have to go where the wind takes me,” it’s a coy addition, faintly smirking.

The Irish woman all but beams at her words, remembering their endless conversations within New Devon and the tunnels beneath Avery’s mansion. Remembering about what she said to Charlotte about moving with the wind. With the treasure. She remembers it all, like their hopefulness about sticking together, once they returned back “home.” Their implications that they could create some sort of life together, or a new form of living. That ocean-top cottage, maybe leaving Oslo, settling down somewhere.

Without a doubt, she knows what Charlotte is referring to. Smiling at her partner, she knows their desire is mutual. She can’t help but bask in the moment’s warmth, her grin turning tired yet overly enwrapped. Overly satisfied, like the exhaustion oneself gets hit with after a long day in the sun. After a long night of sitting next to a fire, and soaking in its security.

So, opting to feel it wholeheartedly, Becky takes a step forward and clings to the taller woman. Hugging her with one arm, as firmly as she can while leaning into her frame. Charlotte gets the hint and holds her in place with an everlasting grin, kissing her on the side of the head before enjoying the moment equally as much.

  
  


 

Nearby, Sasha and Bayley take in the bayside sights while staring off at the water. Its shine in the distance, as the filtered sun beats off its surface. Flickering, occasionally disrupting their vision when their gaze drifts off to note the horizon. There are very few blemishes along the sea’s surface, two or three boats floating close by with hauls of fish coming in to dock. Otherwise, birds constantly fly overhead before fading off and disappearing behind scarce trees. Further above them, planes soar once they jet away from the nearby airport.

Overall, none of the aforementioned factors even scratch the surface of the moment. Of what they truly think about, or the instance they’re stuck in. If you were to ask either one of them, they’d admit that their minds are still on that island. Still recounting all events, as they happened one after another within a string of days. Even then, it felt like hours. The climbing, the running, the swinging, the dodging. The _fighting,_ more frequent than anything else.

Their eyes strain as they attempt to stare past the horizon. As they unrealistically attempt to find the island they flew away from. All they know is that, somewhere far away, they just escaped a fate that could’ve been something out of a fatal story. Something action-packed, yet horrible. Beyond the tranquility of the ocean, they found themselves stranded upon a rock iconized by a snapping turtle-esque cliff, and they managed to live. They managed to defeat their foes, crash through everything set in their path, live out one of the highest fairy-tales of being volatile heroines, and they lived. They lived to tell the stories, to recount them within their own minds, to share thoughts and perspectives. Even if some of those memories come with scars of both ailed physicality and impaired mentality, even if retelling the tales could mean opening up some wounds they’d prefer not to, they still have the breath to do so.

They share something big. A bond that made them grow closer, no matter how much or how little they knew about one another, beforehand.

When it comes to Sasha and Bayley, they’re a specific kind of closeness that grew from little to no prior knowledge of each other. The mercenary had no inkling about Bayley’s family life, how she operates, her grit when it comes to helping others despite how “soft” she may be. She had no clue. Similarly, Bayley knew nothing about her partner’s past. Her twisted, family history, the way she was practically bred to be some kind of monster. How everything made Sasha feel like she wasn’t worth a second-glance, or getting to know. How she figured that Bayley would look at her, just like everyone else does. Like she’s the bad guy.

And she’s sure that her reaction to the reveal didn’t help anything. How she metaphorically cornered the mercenary by expressing that she knew Sasha wasn’t a simple bodyguard. How she darkly snickered about being lied to ━ about being lead on ━ and how she foremost dismissed the woman’s worries about Bayley’s ensuing thoughts about her. How she figured having the status of a mercenary suddenly became this dark, gruesome thing. Like she was automatically a villain, given the title.

The brunette lets out a breath through cracked lips, bowing her head as they stand. Sasha notices, turning to the navigator whose arms release from being crossed. They then sway by her sides, hands slowly coming together so she can pick at her nails. Thinkingly so, like she’s bothered by a certain thought or musing.

“Something on your mind, Bay?”

“Yeah, actually,” the admission is paired with sheepish eyes, glancing up to see Sasha’s eyebrows furrowed while she waits.

Bayley’s mouth opens and closes. Her eyes look off to the water again, listening to the subtle splashing against the stone. The frothing of the waves once they hit, then disperse. She lets the calmness overtake her demeanor, nodding to nothing in particular.

“Just…” an elongated breath is heard. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said when we were being driven to Avery’s mansion. I’m sorry I gave you a hard time at the beginning of the trip,” she confesses, flashing Sasha a sad smile. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I saw you as the bad guy, or I like I ever would.”

“You didn’t,” Sasha is quick to disagree. “We should’ve told you from the get-go what was really going on, even if it meant revealing my profession.”

The navigator chuckles at the statement, eyebrows raising as she stares past the mercenary.

“No, you probably shouldn't have told me about the mission, beforehand,” it’s spoken with a knowing grin, her partner silently questioning the response. “Who knows if I would’ve come with you guys, had I known the truth. And, if I didn’t… I wouldn’t have met you.”

It causes Sasha to blush. She looks down at her feet, sealing her lips tightly.

“You’re not a cold-hearted killer, Sash,” easing her head downward a fraction, Bayley tries looking into skittish eyes as the woman’s chin stays low to the ground. “No matter what you’ve done, either willingly or against your power. You’re not the people who’ve forced you into a life that you would’ve rejected, if you could’ve. And, I believe you would’ve.”

Sasha purses her lips, finally peeking up at Bayley.

“You’re better than that,” the brunette whispers. “Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”

There’s a moment where the mercenary pauses, attempting to gather her thoughts. She attempts to stop smiling, too, however the emotion proves to be too heavy, too difficult to erase. Quite frankly, part of her doesn’t want to turn away from the overwhelming happiness in her heart. The smile on her face. The blush on her cheeks. She feels too light, and too different. It’s something she hasn’t experienced in a while ━ if ever ━ yet somehow found space to do on the island. Despite being chased by ruthless criminals. Now that they’re free, the emotion seems to be unrestricted. Untamed, as well. All she wants to do is revel in it. God, what happened?

A shaky breath exits her lips, shaking her head before straightening her posture. Looking at Bayley, she sees the remnants of a confused grin on her partner’s face. One that questions why Sasha continues to snicker at herself, or wear a facade of humor. If only she knew.

“You really are a softy,” her eyes water when she says it, Bayley laughing just as much. “Thank you,” the following whisper is just as tight-throated, nodding. “You’re one of the very few who see me as a person and not some war-machine. Even when we first met.”

Bayley watches her as she speaks, admiring the woman in front of her. Sasha shrugs, rubbing her lips together while glancing at Becky who speaks cheekily with Charlotte.

“And I don’t mean that as a shitty call-out at Becky for bringing me into this,” she gestures to the redhead, turning her attention back to Bayley. “My father… my family,” it ends there, nibbling her lower lip.

 _“We’re_ your family now. You said that, yourself. From now on, be who you want to be,” it’s easy-spoken, being cheesy yet simultaneously full of seriousness. “Then _that’s_ your place in this world.”

Her kindness continuously grinds down against Sasha’s resolve. The resolve that’s formerly kept her from jumping the gun. From taking massive risks and leaps in an emotional sense. For years, it’s withstood everything that it’s faced. _Everyone_ that it’s faced. And, suddenly, Sasha is given further confirmation that Bayley is someone different. Someone special, and someone… _more._ That constant she’s needed, yet never had until now.

So, finally, she doesn’t bother stopping herself from shattering her own, remaining walls.

Taking a timid step closer, she leans forward to connect their lips. A small, chaste kiss that’s the least bit confident. The least bit bold, like a mercenary should be. It’s sweet, Bayley determines once she’s able to reciprocate. Once she’s able to get a firm hold on reality to figure out what’s happening, that is. Once she’s able to figure out the certain softness on her lips, the mouth against hers. But, as she acquires a taste of Sasha’s mirrored admiration and affection, she can’t help being the one who cuts their kiss short. Against her own will, truly.

Because, five seconds later, a major smile interrupts the embrace. A reactive expression that breaks the elongated peck. Sasha feels it, too, brushing her nose past the brunette’s and sealing her own lips shut in a shade of bashfulness.

Bayley remains smiling. Noticing that, in spite of her partner’s reaction of blushing at her own actions, she still hasn’t backed up. She hasn’t put space between them, like it was a one-time thing or a spur-the-moment mistake. She still remains close, keeping their proximity hazardous. She still wears a mask of wanting to lean in again, wanting to keep them close for minutes past. She still holds onto Bayley, palms hovering atop her elbows with her fingertips curling against the brunette’s skin. Yearning to pull her in, very obviously so. Not desperately, but tentatively.

The navigator doesn’t mind it in the least bit. In fact, she feels enthralled in the notion of being held captive by the woman standing in front of her. She enjoys the idea of maybe spending more time with her, after this. Creating a different life other than going around the same race track for days on end. So, maybe the whole, treasure-hunting thing turned out to be a part-time gig ━ one that’s moderately too much for her to handle day in and day out ━ but a new excitement has entered her life. A new pace, brought into her life by Sasha’s existence. Her own brand of explosiveness. Yeah, that’s definitely something she could get used to.

“You’re not letting me leave your side, ever, are you?”

Her head tilts to the side as she asks the mercenary. A hopefulness strewn throughout her eyes, being picked up on by Sasha. She’s given a quick smile, the expression immediately erased when Sasha bites her lower lip.

“Nope,” the whisper is flirtatious, the tender grip on Bayley’s arms becoming more obvious and less shy. “You’re the one treasure from that damn island that I care to keep.”

“Oh, look who’s being the softy now,” the navigator teases, raising her eyebrows. “What was that when we were on the plane? _'None of that ‘we gained a valuable friendship’ crap’_? What’s different about this?”

“What’s different is that I’m not like this with anyone else,” the retort is matter-of-factly, a determined gaze narrowing. “Surprisingly, for once in my life, I’m okay with being the softy.”

Bayley smiles at her relent. Her honesty, and the positivity in her statement. At her adamancy, the navigator is close to leaning back in. Close to pulling Sasha in by the waist, and close to connecting their lips again with a mutual desire to portray her affection for the woman staring at her as if she’s the world. Close, however disrupted before she can merely touch their mouths together with the lightest pressure.

“Are we interrupting?”

Contradicting her unsure question, Becky sounds smug as she approaches alongside Charlotte. She wears a giant smirk on her face, as well. Knowing full well that she’s derailed something, and that she’s thriving in her pest-like ways.

“Naturally,” Sasha rolls her eyes, backing up so they can allow their two friends into a compact circle.

“Good, so I haven’t lost my touch.”

“Some things never change,” at the redhead’s proud nature, Charlotte’s voice is dull as she speaks to Sasha and Bayley. “Sorry, I can only do so much work on her.”

The two chuckle at Becky’s slumping shoulders. The frown that comes with her response to Charlotte’s remark, to boot. All the while, the hunter keeps her side covered with pressure. The rag now turned a deep red as she holds it safely. The historian stands at her side, keeping her partner propped up. Making sure she doesn’t collapse, more specifically. Being close enough to catch her, but far enough to allow Becky to sway, if necessary. A perfect balance.

With a sigh, Sasha folds her arms and leans on Bayley’s shoulder. Placing her clasped hands next to the curve of her neck, then resting her cheek there. Using her partner as a support while standing near the water. The brunette looks at her as much as she can through the acute angle, not minding the position before turning back to their friends.

“Where are you two heading?” the mercenary looks between them, not lifting her cheek.

“She’s making me go to the hospital,” making an irritated face, Becky’s words are drawled out and pointedly bothered. “A dull ‘welcome home’ gift, if you ask me.”

“What about you guys?” it’s ignored, Charlotte asking before her attention zones in on Sasha. “Your arm’s still not looking too hot.”

“I’m not having a bonding experience with you in the E.R., sorry,” she jokes. “I’ll be okay. I’ve gotten by without medical after suffering worse. Comes with the territory,” the ending is absentmindedly muttered.

“That doesn’t always have to be the case,” the historian doesn’t hold back from arguing, her attitude friendly yet reminding.

“I know,” the admission comes as she pulls Bayley closer, adjusting her position to wrap an arm around the woman’s waist. “I’m actually turning over a new leaf now. The military scene was never me,” she shrugs one shoulder. “It just took me until now to stop forcing it.”

The navigator smiles, eyes flickering to her partner.

“Think I’ll be more of a… _freelance_ mercenary. Only working with close friends, y’know?” it’s directed at Becky with a smirk, the treasure hunter laughing and nodding her head. “Otherwise, maybe I have gone a little soft,” with a sigh and an eye-roll, she confesses while turning to Bayley.

Their friends notice the palpable tension between them. Smiling at it, nonetheless.

“That doesn’t mean I’m getting my arm fixed up, though,” Sasha is quick to warn all of them with a stern finger-point. “I don’t like doctors.”

 _“Jeez,_ no spiders, no heights, no docs,” the redhead rants. “Pinky’s a scaredy cat.”

A glare is thrown in her direction. Charlotte bumps the Irish woman’s shoulder in a silent lecture, Becky snickering before she eases up on the teasing.

“Right, well, I still have my motel room rented out,” her reminder isn’t invasive, nor with hidden intention, mindlessly throwing out the information. “Your stuff’s in there, too, don’t forget,” pulling Charlotte closer, she undoes the backpack. “Plan on us coming by tomorrow to visit and grab our things. I won’t let the hospital hold me for longer than a night.”

Charlotte is about to cut in and debate that they’ll stay in the hospital for as long as they need to, however her argument dies when Becky hums in content.

“Softy, I believe this belongs to you.”

The redhead presents the tiny, golden flower to her friend, being the one found on Avery’s floor. Bayley smiles immediately, taking it between pinched fingers. It’s then safely tucked back into her pocket with the other, lasting flowers.

“Hm, I still have mine, too,” Sasha brushes her shoulder, the two sharing a moment of thick eye contact before, again, it’s ruined by Becky ━ albeit absentmindedly this time.

“Here,” the motel room key is tossed to Sasha.

While closing the bag’s main compartment, Becky hears Charlotte’s confused question of “Wait, you brought your motel key with you to the island?”

“Yeah,” she resumes her former position of standing alongside her partner, “why?”

“What if you lost it?”

“I think we had worse problems than me losing a hotel key, love,” her eyebrows raise, smiling oddly at the blonde whose mouth closes.

“For once, I think I agree with Hot Head,” the mercenary makes a face, crossing her arms.

 _“‘For once.’_ Lass, you agreed with me for most of our getaway,” Becky counters. “Maybe not _willingly,”_ her eyes go wide.

At this, Bayley chuckles. An obvious sound that gets Sasha to turn to her. A frown on her face, arms tightly crossed. Her own brand of lecture, full of faux insult. Faux offense, and annoyance with the insinuation that she’s anything like Becky.

“What? She has a point,” the brunette defends, keeping the grin on her face. “You two are more alike than you want to admit.”

All but grunting at the statement, Sasha shakes her head. She then turns back to Becky, the redhead wearing a cheeky expression. One of the most Becky-like faces that portrays her personality to a T. She can’t help but laugh at it. Sighing, afterwards.

“How ‘bout it, Pinky?”

Her arm is held out to the mercenary. A resemblance of their handshake from when they first agreed to Sasha’s services. Back in Springfield, a week or so ago. Oh, how time flies, they muse.

Still, it’s a sentimental gesture that Sasha can’t even think about refusing. It’s something between only the two of them, like a certain memory with a good friend. It causes the mercenary to smile, against her wishes to pretend that Becky hasn’t become part of that family they’ve built. Admittedly, she’s the backbone of it.

“Until next time?” Sasha asks.

“Until next time.”

The repetition comes, inviting the mercenary to clasp her hand. She holds onto the grip tightly, a sort of challenge that the hunter picks up on and exchanges fully. Then, their gesture is broken by another.

From Sasha’s side, Bayley approaches cautiously. Happily wrapping both women in a large hug. Charlotte doesn’t wait to join in, too, all of them in a slight huddle. Becky, between most of them, tries her hardest to hold onto her side. To keep the pressure on without elbowing anyone, or wincing too heavily. She fails repeatedly, scrunching her nose up in dismay.

“I hate to break this up, but I was stabbed quite recently.”

No one jumps back, but their pressure is released. Stepping back, they all return to their former circle, the brunette otherwise teasing Becky.

“It’s just a scratch,” there’s a giant smile on her face, the Irish woman giving her a playful look.

The historian, on the other hand, glances at the wound again. Seeing that it still hasn’t gotten better, no matter how much the bleeding has slowed. It hasn’t stopped completely, which won’t bode well for Becky if it continues. She sighs.

“We better get that checked out sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah,” for once, Becky mutters the admission while nodding sadly.

Then, she faces their friends once more.

“We’ll always have Libertalia, right?”

At the same time that Bayley replies, “You betcha,” Sasha gives her own, decisive “Right.”

And that’s that.

Becky’s attitude falls into a solemness as she knows it’s time to walk away from the two, other women. She knows it’s not goodbye ━ it’s _never_ going to be a goodbye ━ but, feeling as though she’s just gotten ahold of what “family” means… it’s hard to turn away from. Especially willingly. It’s just as hard as it was when she tried running away from them, on the other side of that gorge. In fact, if you were to ask, it was one of the most difficult things she’s ever endured. Along with leaving Paige’s body behind, and, before that, turning away from Charlotte on that foreign dock.

Leaving behind loved ones ━ in any case ━ has never been her forte. It’s never been something that she’s able to stomach well, no matter what. Currently, the only thing easing the sourness in her gut is knowing that, this time, she’ll be walking next to Charlotte. She’ll have a hand to hold onto. She’ll have someone to lean against, in case her mind becomes too loud, too vicious. And it _will_ become merciless, in time. It never stops, and she knows it. Now, it just so happens that she’s able to fend off those boisterous tones and prodding thoughts that threaten to break her in half. Now, she has the willingness to accept care. To accept a safety blanket, after she tried so heavily to be on her own once Paige left her.

Before the island’s existence rocked her idea of what it meant to be strong, she figured leaning on someone was impractical. That she couldn’t trust anyone but herself, and that letting someone into her world would be dangerous. For _them,_ more than for herself. Charlotte’s fierce determination and unrelenting attitude about uncovering what makes her tick changed the Irish woman’s outlook entirely. Willingly or not. So, walking away from that island, she’s now able to acknowledge that it’s not a weakness to accept care or someone else’s hand. It’s a humane thing, and pertinent to one’s survival. She would’ve never made it if she didn’t, in a way, accept Charlotte’s amends as much as Charlotte accepted hers.

Maybe such a dangerous expedition turned out to be the real blessing in disguise. Maybe she didn’t go there retracing Avery’s steps, or hoping to resurrect Paige. Maybe the universe didn’t damn her by tossing their boat overboard, or by making everything play out the way that it did. Maybe, in some, shitty aspect, the universe was making sure that she became someone new. Someone better, someone more cunning, and more accepting of what’s happened.

Of course, she could never outsmart the universe. She always thought that it was crapping on everything she loved, or everything she wanted. That it was forcing her into horrendous scenarios in hopes of breaking her. Perhaps, all this time, it was trying to put her back together again. Showing her tough love in strive to prove what it means to feel. To be human.

Optimistic thinking ━ in dedication to Bayley ━ says that’s the case. It says that, maybe, the world isn’t as bad as she thought it was. Only the people inside the world stain its reputation. Maybe the world, itself, isn’t so bad.

After a pause, she turns to the historian. An instant smile is given, being full of promises and convincing arguments that, like always, they’ll be okay. Suddenly, her existence feels a bit lighter. A bit more clear, and a bit less numbing. Something that makes her stomach swirl with anticipation for the future, instead of dreading it. She smiles back, feeling a warmth in her cheeks.

The blonde nods at her partner, then toward the warehouse property’s exit.

Starting to walk away from their friends, Charlotte throws one last “I’ll call you later, Boss” over her shoulder.

“You better,” the mercenary shouts back, voice echoing against the stone walls. “Keep that girl of yours in line.”

Becky scoffs as she walks next to the historian, brushing against her shoulder while limping slightly. Charlotte giggles at her distaste, peering over her shoulder to respond.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” she also gives Sasha thumbs-up, however her entertainment is redirected when Becky forcibly pouts.

When she also stops in her tracks, swaying in place. Flashing the blonde a pair of childishly angry eyes, a creased forehead, and an overall fit-throwing demeanor.

“Hey,” the offense in the word is strong, punctuated by a sad face, “I’m still the captain.”

Charlotte’s surprised that she’s not stomping her foot on the ground, as well. Something tells her that, if Becky’s side wasn’t bleeding, she probably would’ve completed the outburst with something as dramatic. Probably even more dramatic. She shakes her head at the image, watching Becky start walking again.

“You’re something, alright,” she regains a side-to-side walk, being caught off-guard when a stabbing poke is gifted to her rib.

Instead of the historian reacting to her immature prodding, Becky is the one to grunt out a pained “Ow, my side.”

It’s tailed by a whine, then a hiss when she contorts her cut a little too much. She pushes against the cloth again, growling at nothing in particular as they walk cautiously. Charlotte, this time, snickers at her misfortune.

“Karma comes fast,” her partner tuts. “Be careful.”

There’s a pause. A spurt of silence that flows between them as Becky’s head slowly but surely turns to Charlotte. The historian waits, feeling a burning gaze against her temple. She waits for whatever the treasure hunter is bound to say. Feeling the words percolate within the woman’s mind.

Finally, a gradual, uncanny smile appears.

“When have you _ever_ known me to be careful?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before the water-works start (or continue), let me remind everyone that we have two chapters left despite this originally designed to be the closing chapter. A month or so ago, I decided to extend the outline. Thus, we continue from here. I know this goodbye was short, mostly because it was supposed to be combined with the plane dialogue from last chapter. Obviously, I wanted to divide it to separate the different emotions, but it was a sacrifice of length. Sadly enough.
> 
> With that said, Baysha will only come back into play via flashbacks in the next chapter. So, in a way, this truly was the goodbye to them. For now, at least. Who knows what the future will bring (as my mind has been running on a rapid track tryna get me to already write a sequel to this, or at least a series of one-shots). Either way, I hope this was a valiant ending to their story. I very much left it open for plausible theories regarding where they go from here together (which I'll answer in the next chapter, roughly), so even your own headcanons can come into play for them. They're really a "soulmate" situation, if you believe in those. The universe almost designed them for one another, considering Sasha's "rough" personality (you aren't fooling anyone, Pinky) and Bayley's kind aura. They mix beautifully, and I'm sad that we didn't get to spend more time with them. Again, maybe someday we will. Who knows.
> 
> As for Charlynch, I peppered traces of apprehension throughout this chapter, as you could probably see. It's for a reason. Like I said in the last author's note, we all get a little too deep in our own heads sometimes. Becky is no stranger to that, and let's just say we'll witness something very difficult. Nevertheless, you all know I'd never leave you without a happy ending. I just can't do it. So, hold onto that. Speaking of the last, two chapters (which I'll remind you in the next author's note), I'll be posting them within a single day of each other. They're all ready to go, and it's a massive ending that I don't want to keep on the back-burner for too long. You'll thank me for posting them close together, trust me.
> 
> Wrapping this up, I want to reiterate my thanks to everyone for supporting me. I mentioned that I'll save all my thanks and sappiness for the absolute final chapter, however this was a certain wrap-up that feels a lot like walking away from friends. I get that it's probably bittersweet. It definitely is for me, as I've had a hard time stomaching the end of this story. See, when I write, it oftentimes becomes a legitimate escape for me. I can only see that world around me, and that becomes my reality for a while. I can see things play out in front of my eyes, and it comforts me -- even in the worst of scenarios within the fic. With this universe closing (at least in terms of writing), it's hard to deal with. Being sucked back into actual reality is... crappy -- to say the least. It has to happen sooner or later, but it's a solemn feeling. Anyway, thank you again.
> 
> For now, I'll be off preparing the final, two chapters. I'm not sure when the first will be put out. Perhaps Tuesday or Wednesday (my time). We'll see. I may try to elongate the pause just to savor these last few moments. On the other hand, why would I want to keep you waiting? 
> 
> Stay tuned, my friends.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everybody, and welcome to the first of the final, two updates -- or, as I like to call it: the beginning of the end. 
> 
> FOREWARNING: This is a flashback-heavy chapter. So it'll be a high-speed walkthrough of the past day since they all departed from behind that warehouse (after landing the plane). I'm not sure I've ever done a flashback-esque chapter in this story (I used to utilize the tactic a lot in other fics), so it may not be as smooth as my normal updates are. Nonetheless, I needed to cover all of my bases, and you'll understand why by the end of this update.
> 
> Obviously, in the bottom author's note, I'll have some analyses of this update, and maybe a little "heads-up" about the next. BUT what I'm sure a lot of you will want to read is a little tidbit about where we go after this story -- A.K.A. some insight about any upcoming projects of mine, what I'm doing with life, etc. 
> 
> So, I won't hold you back any longer. Go ahead and give it a read.

OSLO, NORWAY

WED., 10:51 P.M.

* * *

The click of a light-grey door being unlocked brings her back to reality. Like a sudden snap, or a solid clunk that stops the ringing in her ears. Then, the following creak that invites a pit of darkness before her eyes.

Past Charlotte’s frame, the woman’s finger flicks the light-switch so it illuminates the apartment. So it fills the new space with actual life, instead of shadows. Otherwise pushing the door further open so Becky can enter the new space, before herself.

Walking deliberately atop fancy, laminate floor, brown eyes scope out her new environment. Similar to a frail creature assessing their new home in a conservation center, shy and timid. Amazed, too, but in a lesser sense. Chin tilted upwards, gaze roaming the area with the simplest grin on her face. No bolder expression than that, and no verbal acknowledgment. Her reaction to the basic apartment isn’t anything seen with a spur-the-moment glance, nor is it easily noticeable. In fact, Charlotte has to observe the redhead’s features for an extended second to really find the hidden smile in her eyes. Once she sees it, a modest wave of relief washes over her. Not enough to ease her stirring worries from the day, but enough to get her to speak.

“Welcome to my less-than-exciting abode,” she sounds unamused, putting her hands on her hips while watching the other woman nimbly step past the kitchen’s threshold and into the living room.

“Can already tell it’s more excitin’ than a hospital room, love.”

The remark is soft-spoken over her shoulder with a fresh smirk, right before she goes back to taking in the sights. Behind her, Charlotte chuckles at the comment. Leaving the treasure hunter to settle, at least for a moment, she goes back to lugging more of her own bags into the apartment.

The Irish woman’s heart thumps within her chest. A fast-paced yet quiet beating in response to being somewhere so new, so different. So unlike anything else she’s faced, or conquered before. Her hands grip at the green backpack on her shoulders, scratching at its vinyl straps before glancing down at her torso. Before glancing down at Paige’s leather jacket cuddling her body, more specifically. Keeping her warm, and comforted. Like a mobile home. Her own version of what it feels like to be home, that is. She moves her hands and tugs at the edges of it, pulling it further around her body as she hears Charlotte scuffle behind her.

A sigh exits her nose, knowing she’s doing it again. Knowing that, like for the day’s majority, she appears absolutely out of place. Against her own wishes, even. It’s been consistent since early morning, seeming like a stranger to her friends. To Charlotte, above anyone. And, if you were to ask, she’d admit that she’s felt the need to apologize several times for the way she’s been acting. How she’s been borderline mindless for hours, but it’s gotten worse since they left the hospital. Then, it reached an all-time high when their plane lifted off from the Madagascan airport in strive to take them back to Oslo. To Charlotte’s apartment, pinpointedly.

All she’s felt the need to do is say she’s sorry for her attitude. Her declining attitude, and reservation about everything. How she’s been aware of her quietness, of her apprehension, yet hasn’t done a damn thing about it. Ever since she’d awoke in that godforsaken hospital bed, she’s immediately acted… _odd._ There’s no doubt that she has, judging by the assortment of looks she’s received throughout the day. Frankly, she hasn’t been herself.

Part of Becky understands that her adjustments to the fallout of Avery’s treasure have been tinkering too much with her brain. She’s been too involved in her own mind, too lost in her head. _Again._ She feels lost. Given that she’s been back and forth for the longest time, hardly calming down between hunts ━ even less when she was searching for Avery’s treasure ━ she knows it’s probable for her to feel so lost-in-limbo. It’s expected.

As it stands, there’s not much of a goal for her. There’s no thirst for retribution anymore, or heart-eyes shown at another pirate’s bounty. She’s not sure what she’s doing tonight, or tomorrow, or for the following week. Having an aimless mind… it’s not her thing. It never has been.

Nevertheless, despite knowing how off-kilter she’s acted, the apologies haven’t tripped out. The explanations haven’t, either. And, sure, the redhead is positive that the likelihood of her friends understanding that she’s not in her normal headspace anymore is a massive percentage. They understand more than she gives them credit for. The historian, more than any of them. Then again, there’s the dreaded fear that they believe she’s not cut out for the settling. The calmness, and the serenity.

There’s the dreaded fear that _she_ believes such, and it’s always lingering.

Deep down, there’s a worry that maybe she’s really _not_ cut out for the domesticity that she stares at. The muted tones of the blues on the wall, the random artwork scattered around, the rustic knick-knacks and lesser antiques on shelves, the dark-grey laminate floors made to look like wood, the beige, fluffy couch across from a flat-screen TV, the fake plants scattered around the room to bring some life into the space. The mundane of it all, and the blandness. The fact that she’s staring at a public park — not a forbidden city — just below the large windows of the apartment’s main space. The lightness of it all, and the bareboned idea of what a home is.

Every aspect is something she’ll have to get used to. The quaintness, the fact that the air feels stagnant. Not rushing, not adventurous. Simply… _there._ Beckoning for her to sit down on the couch and watch some TV, or turn around where they entered and cook in the small kitchen she passed through. It whispers in her ear thoughts about being a common human. To stop being so rough, so dangerous, and take a rest. To learn herself, too ━ something she’s been trying her hardest to evade, and will continue to do so.

All facets considered, it’s a beautiful apartment. It’s calming, and Charlotte’s attention to detail ━ plus the mixture of generic qualities ━ is impeccable. She wishes she could compliment it, really. She wishes she could turn around, open her mouth, and speak freely. Because, thinking of it, if she felt she was a normal person, this is somewhere she’d settle. It’s somewhere she’d sit herself down, and enjoy the passing days of life. Even if she’s not that person, she still feels lucky to have been invited back to the blonde’s home.

So, maybe her head can’t wrap around the idea of being so benign right now, and she vehemently questions why the unmoving atmosphere still feels so forced, but, without a doubt, she feels thankful for Charlotte’s generosity. Her forward persona regarding inviting her back to her place, despite _still_ not discussing what’s going on between them.

Becky dips her head. Nibbling her lower lip, in the process. Ultimately thinking of all the events that lead them here.

Following yesterday’s departure from Sasha and Bayley behind the warehouse where they landed, she’d limped to the local hospital with Charlotte by her side. It wasn’t long before they were assigned a room in the emergency wing, the Irish woman laid out onto a medical bed whereas her partner sat in a guest chair approximately two feet away. Immediately, the historian proved to be less than apt to leave Becky’s side ━ no matter how much the other woman pleaded with her to take care of herself, first.

_“If I have to stay overnight, you don’t need to keep me company. Go back to the motel, and get some rest.”_

_“I’m staying right here.”_

_“Charlotte, you slept on flat rock for two nights. I’m not making you stay here with me.”_

_“Trust me, this chair is much comfier than stone. I’m not leaving you, Becks.”_

_“You should at least go back to the motel and clean yourself up. Get comfy, then come back. I’ll be here waitin’.”_

_“I am_ not _leaving you.”_

Her tone was stressed but remained kind. Adamant, being a better word. Against Becky’s better judgement, she relented. Allowing the debate to dwindle between them until it dispersed wholly. Especially as the hour progressed, after that, when an individual sample-testing of her jagged wound revealed something they didn’t plan for. Something they didn’t even think of.

 _“Minor surgery_ will _be necessary.”_

The surgeon stood at the edge of her bed, his English accent thick. Internally, Becky’s heart bestilled. It nearly stopped at the sudden knowledge. At the formidable unknown. Her eyebrows furrowed, and he continued to explain.

_“Upon further observation, we’ve found toxic shavings from an unknown metal in the wound. If they’re left in any longer, they could get into the bloodstream, itself. It’s no longer a simple case of stitching you up, I’m afraid.”_

She recalls Charlotte’s posture stiffening as she sat nearby. The look of fear etched across her face, and her overall demeanor. The redhead, herself, felt her heart sink. Faster, and more than a minute prior. Although the surgeon’s tone was the least bit dire or panicked, the idea of having an actual operation done wasn’t on her list of things to do. It wasn’t on her list of things to endure after what she’d gone through on the island, and Lacey’s antics were already proving to carry over into Becky’s “reborn” world. Her new life, too, and outlook on everything.

Nevertheless, she agreed to it.

Since it was a minor procedure ━ taking approximately two hours at the most to both extract the metallic substance and stitch her accordingly ━ there was an automatic relief from Charlotte’s perspective when her partner was wheeled back into the room. But, before that, the historian kept herself busy while sitting alone in the quietude. When attempting to rest didn’t pan out, she sauntered into the space’s compact bathroom and cleaned herself up as much as she could. She washed away some dirt, some rocks, some grime while internally praising the staff for not asking too many questions. It was one of the Irish woman’s infinite fears, as they walked to the hospital. Charlotte had to admit that she shared the same worries, but getting her partner fixed up took priority. If anyone asked what happened, so be it.

Cleaning herself became more of a grievance than a relief. When it didn’t work out as much as she liked, a call was begrudgingly made to Sasha’s cell phone. Part of the historian wondered if her phone was even connected considering that they’d been in a foreign country, but a tightened breath was released when her friend answered ━ albeit with nervousness.

 _“It’s Charlotte,”_ she spoke carefully into the room’s landline, rubbing her jaw in thought. _“Can you do me a fa━”_

_“How’s Becky?”_

_“She’s in surgery.”_

_“It was_ that _bad?”_

 _“Yeah,”_ the response was weak. _“I don’t mean to make you guys move again, but can you bring us some spare clothes? I thought I’d be able to deal with feeling gross, but…”_

_“Of course we can. It’s the local hospital, right?”_

There was a pause, then Charlotte meekly exhaled a quiet _“Right.”_

Sasha and Bayley arrived sooner than expected, once they managed to scoure for their friends’ bags. Both women freshly showered and looking as if they didn’t just escape a hellish island. Charlotte waited for them at the hospital’s entrance after finding the strength to leave Becky’s room despite wishing to be there in case the woman was rolled back in. Almost before they were face to face with the historian, they were asking about the Irish woman’s state, and why she needed surgery. Details were shared, the story explained, before Charlotte was their focus of attention.

 _“Do you want us to keep you company?”_ Bayley wore a faint smile, encouraging the blonde to be honest.

 _“No, I’d rather you two go back there and rest. She should be out soon. They said it’s not a lengthy procedure, so she’ll be brought back to her room at any minute,”_ her cheeks puffed out with a breath, then she forced a lightness. _“We’ll see you tomorrow, though. I’m sure she meant it when she said she wouldn’t stay for longer than a night.”_

Sasha snickered, _“Must feel nice being the only one able to hold her down for longer than a day.”_

It was pointed, teasing, and Charlotte actually smiled at her comment. A gentle touch was given to her shoulder, followed by a pair of hugs before they left, hand in hand.

When the redhead was brought back into the room, she was still put under. Unconscious, and swaying with the bed’s wheels. Once she was settled and the doctors left, it’d take hours for her to regain any idea of where she was. By then, it was already getting late in the night. With her sleeping body lying still within the bed, her features appearing peaceful, Charlotte found a minute sense of comfort. One that provided her with an easing of her heart, and the ability to snuggle up within the guest chair’s confines after she had changed into her fresh clothes.

Hours later, Becky _did_ wake up. At the time, the historian had been dozing off in her chair. Slumped, with her cheek pressed to her fist. That ended instantly, as the redhead’s late-night jolt into reality by inching up in bed ━ followed by her sharp hiss at the abrupt motion ━ woke the blonde without a period of adjustment. Charlotte all but jumped from the chair and rushed two feet forward to Becky’s side, easing her chest back down to the pillows. The soft touch on the Irish woman’s cheek coddled her, Charlotte watching a large breath leave her chest as she nuzzled back into the pillows. Albeit, still, brown eyes fluttered and stared at her features. As if they were mapping them out, and realizing that she was okay.

 _“Bad dream?”_ the blonde asked, brushing some stray hairs from her partner’s clammy face.

 _“No,”_ Becky looked up at her, eyes glossy. _“Didn’t know where I was, I guess,”_ a sharp breath exited her throat, appearing overly vulnerable with intention to hide it beneath a facade of manufactured comedy.

 _“You’re right here with me,”_ Charlotte took her hand, rubbing her thumb against the woman’s knuckles.

The morning was different, in more ways than one. Becky had achieved a modest amount of sleep with Charlotte earning the same ━ though her acquisition was lighter, more aware of her surroundings in case the hunter needed anything. So, with Becky’s energy level recuperating from the past few days’ events, right as the doctor popped in to check on her patient, the Irish woman was off to the races in strive to flee the hospital.

_“Minor surgery means I’m not required to stay any longer, right, doc?”_

_“I’d advise you to reconsider your obvious choice, but that’s correct,” there’s a bit of laughter in her voice._

_“I’m good,” Becky smiles at Charlotte, bouncing her eyebrows in triumph._

_“I must say you’re lucky, however. Had that wound been any deeper, and you could’ve been seriously impaired by that metal,” the doctor says with a baffled grin. “Dare I insinuate worse.”_

_“That’s a bit of a cliché thing to say, isn’t it?”_

_She earns a strange look from the professional. A face of confusion at her words, plus Becky’s unrelenting smugness. Charlotte forces a polite smile for the both of them._

_“Thank you,” the blonde says with genuinity, the doctor nodding before walking out of the room._

_Once she’s gone, the historian then turns to Becky. An immediate, pointed stare is thrown in her direction. One full of lecture, and a playful amount of annoyance. A telling that she needs to behave, for once. Brown eyes widen in defense, shoulders easing into a shrug._

_“What?”_

_“Can you at least_ try _to be a good patient while we’re still here?”_

 _“I wouldn’t say I’m being a_ bad _patient.”_

Three hours later, and they’d be out of the hospital. Cleanly dressed, comfortable considering the remaining flakes of dirt on their skin. Pain-killing prescription in hand, and a list of minor side-effects when dealing with a mild case of poisoning. Becky walked weakly to the taxi, limping while trying her hardest to move as fast as she could. All Charlotte could think of was that at least she’s unquestionably stitched up and not bleeding. Even so, she made sure not to stray too far from her partner. She knew that, given the chance, Becky would attempt something so independent ━ so _idiotic_ ━ in her frail state, they’d end up back in the hospital. That’s something she wouldn’t allow to happen. As expected, while lowering the redhead into the taxi, she was thrown a glare.

_“Glare at me all you want. I’m still gonna help.”_

Next stop was visiting Sasha and Bayley at the motel. First and foremost Becky and Charlotte taking turns using the shower, and washing their bodies free of the island’s ailments. Individually, they thrived in the fresh water and the scent of soap lathering their skin. The only issue came on Becky’s part, having a difficulty keeping her newly fastened stitches free of water and possible infection. Within minutes, she’d manage to find success, and she reveled in the shower’s warmth before finishing up.

After, she was bombarded with questions about her condition. Questions which she answered truthfully and with confidence. Most importantly: she shared how she’s expected to make a full recovery, rather quickly. The information was met with a round of alleviation, however derailed by the redhead’s imminent explanation of what went wrong on the island. What she should’ve told them, from the very beginning. Her prior working for Lacey, scavenging alongside Rhea, how she lost Paige, and so forth. Every painful memory, put on a silver platter for her two friends who ached for the treasure hunter.

With all four women lounging on the bed in a deformed circle, Charlotte gave Becky a pair of eyes when she caught her hesitation about telling them her life story. Her hesitation about reopening the wound in regards to growing up as an orphan. Regardless of the shining, ocean eyes she’d been faced with, Becky told the story again. It wasn’t any less painful than when she explained everything to the historian, but, this time, there was a confidence that hadn’t been there before. There was a crutch, as Charlotte laid a gentle hand on her knee. She felt empowered, even mildly so. Strong enough to push away the hurt of the past, and acknowledge that she can at least relatively control the future.

 _“I’m not telling you because it’s part of my story with Lacey and Rhea,”_ Becky said, wetting her lips in thought. _“I’m telling you because it’s part of my story as a whole, and I want to share it with those I trust.”_

Charlotte couldn’t help but smile.

However, that smile began to diminish as their visit with their friends grew longer. As her eye contact with Becky became more monumental, more realizing. They knew that, soon, once they departed from their friends, they’d be alone together. They’d have to face the knowledge that they’re unspokenly taking baby steps, yet have otherwise decided to stick together.

The largest wave of off-kilter attitude hit once Sasha and Bayley laid out their own plan of sticking together. How, after this, they’ve decided to head out to Cape Cod for a week or so to recuperate. To get to know each other a little more within the confines of a beach-side cottage, or a shoreline hotel. After that, Bayley will be at least visiting Springfield for a while since she’s had no work projects to complete. “Visiting,” being a word used lightly; truth be told, they all picked up on the unspoken confession that, one way or another, the two would be forever attached. No one mentioned it.

 _“You’re welcome to join us at the Cape, if you’d like,”_ out of nowhere, the brunette’s eyes lit up with the offer. _“A mini-vacation?”_ she attempted to sway them, however Charlotte was first to turn to Becky, then to answer on their collective behalf.

 _“Um,”_ there was a small, nervous laugh that paused her words, _“we’ve discussed things, and we’re actually heading back to Oslo together. I have another week off, plus a lot vacation days built up, so I plan on using that time to make sure she’s okay. With her side, and everything.”_

Unlike before, this tip-toed answer became the true revelation of awkwardness between Charlotte and Becky. It was the pinpointed moment where they could tell something wasn’t right. Something about the way the redhead forced a smile at the other woman’s words, how they both looked nervous about what it could mean for them. As if going back to Oslo together was this massive step, and they’d been hit with a sudden epiphany about what it could mean. As if it made it more real, now that they’re out of the realm of fantasy. As if they’re no longer battling for their lives, and, suddenly, all there’s left to do is sulk in the realism.

Nevertheless, the moment was interrupted when the Irish woman made a funny noise with her lips and proclaimed that she’d have to gather her things from the motel. All items and maps and personal belongings that had been scattered around the room for weeks upon weeks. The endless clues about Avery’s travels, her books, her journals. All of it, thrown around the space.

Against her plan of independence, Bayley jumped up to help her. Following the treasure hunter into the bathroom, and asking what she needs help with ━ a question that earned a resounding grunt.

_“Why do none of you believe I’m still capable of taking care of myself?”_

Charlotte heard Becky’s playful ━ yet somewhat legitimately irritated ━ inquisition echo from the tiled room. It was tailed by a brief pause, then Bayley’s matter-of-factly reply.

_“Those stitches might have something to do with it.”_

In the adjacent room, Sasha proceeded to give the historian a pair of wondering eyes. Unrelenting eyes with a blatant curiosity about the friction, without a doubt. Time and time again, Charlotte brushed it off. She tried ignoring the unwavering stare, and the questionable look that she was faced with whenever she turned back to the mercenary. The woman even got out a quiet _“You good?”_ that the blonde forced a smile at. Then, she inadvertently gave away her own thoughts.

 _“We’re fine,”_ realizing what she said, her eyes slammed shut and her chin raised in irritation, shaking her head with a pained smile on her face. _“I mean,_ I’m _fine.”_

That’s all Sasha needed to hear to silently lecture her friend. To prod at her in hopes that she’d be open and honest. Like minutes before, Charlotte proceeded to brush it off. To ignore it, and bow her head so she couldn’t feel the burning gaze against her temple. Even more so when she put on another mask of faux happiness as Becky and Bayley re-entered the room. Another book or two was tossed into one of the redhead’s pair of bags ━ a small number for the lengthiness of time she stuck around in the motel for ━ before she huffed and mentioned she had to go to the motel’s main building to give them her final payment.

_“After that, we can head out.”_

The words were like a knife between them. Cutting that aforementioned tension while simultaneously cutting off their oxygen. Brown eyes locked with an ocean color when she said it so timidly, so emotionlessly. Charlotte’s mouth initially hung open, afterwards forcibly snapping it shut and nodding. Snapping it shut so hard that her teeth clacked together, and Sasha had to refrain from rolling her eyes at the historian’s insistence that they’re alright. It wouldn’t take a genius to notice that there’s something off.

Either way, Becky mirrored the conflicted expression on her partner’s face, then exited the motel room without another word. Unbeknownst to the redhead, she left the room with Bayley in tow.

_“Stalking me now, Softy?” hearing the brunette’s rushing footsteps behind her and peering over her shoulder, there’s a strained amusement in her voice._

_“I’ve been meaning to get some air,” the woman catches up, walking alongside her friend._

_“Mhm,” the redhead makes a face, knowing that, more so, Bayley wanted to keep an eye on her._

_They approach the main building’s desk after crunching along stray pebbles on the sidewalk. Walking slowly, like she wants the moment to last, she steps up to the simple window she’d come into contact with endlessly during her time here. The place where they’d kept her payments safe in a six-by-six letter box, being her own slot within the motel’s “mail room.” Every day, the same man works the booth. He’d always give Becky a genuine smile whenever she’d stop by. It’s routine, by now. Something comfortable, and unspoken._

_Like many times before, she avoids the language barrier while sliding the final envelope across the desk and beneath the window. Automatically, he knows she’s leaving, and his expression changes to that of a slanted smile. One that also comes with the smallest bow of his head, respectively so. She mirrors it._

_“Thank you,” Becky manages to say, and he smiles again._

_Turning away is another instance that’s difficult. Another goodbye that she hates to make. Another goodbye given to the generous employees she’s encountered while here, the civilization she’s come to call one of her few homes, and, soon, the motel in an overall sense. It saddens her posture, lowering the light in her eyes while having to swallow the lump in her throat. All the while forgetting that Bayley lingers nearby, and waits for her friend to be ready._

_Her gaze lifts to see the brunette wearing that of sympathy. On sight, Becky attempts to erase her sadness. She attempts to pretend that she’s okay, and not aching. Another plastic grin is manufactured, right before she moves to pass the other woman._

_“Wait, Becks.”_

_The hunter stops moving. She turns around, raising her eyebrows in question. Bayley waits for a second, then approaches so they’re closer. Standing on the sidewalk, and looking off at the ocean across from the building’s side. The ocean they sat and drank beside, the night before heading off to the island. The area is vacant, quiet, and only disturbed by the flutters of birds’ wings above them. Becky tries to focus on everything other than the silence between them. The knowledge that Bayley is bound to drum up a conversation that, likely, is something she wished to avoid. Confirmation comes faster than she planned for._

_“Are you okay?”_

_Figures, Becky thinks._

_“Oh, so there’s_ another _reason as to why you followed me,” it’s joking and deceptive, paired with the skeptical curve of her lips._

_The navigator shrugs, wearing a similar grin. Really, Becky can’t help but chuckle at the question. Opening her mouth to answer, although not having a good response to it. She knows she can’t lie to Bayley. Not anymore. Not after everything they’ve been through together. Everything that happened between them, too, as a result of her monstrous fib. When the brunette gives her a narrow-eyed look to remind her that she knows when she’s being strung along, Becky knows she can’t even claw her way out of the conversation._

_“It’s just a ‘back home’ typa strange feelin’,” the admission is reticent. “I’ll be better before you all know it. I can tell you’ve been wonderin’.”_

_“Have you told Charlotte?”_

_“No,” her heart clenches, feeling guilty, “I don’t want her to worry more than she already is. My side,” a vague gesture is given to the area, “and all we’ve been through…”_

_Shifting her jaw, her head shakes slowly. Looking down at her feet, she sighs again._

_“Not to mention that she didn’t exactly find me in the best state of mind, back on Avery’s ship.”_

_Her lips rub together, peering up at Bayley again._

_“It’s odd, being off the island and now knowing what we know. I’ve spent so much time pining over Avery’s treasure that now things feel a little mixed up. Slow-ish. I’ve never paused, y’know? That’s not me,” the smile she gives her friend is full of sadness, choked up. “But… I’m afraid that, if I tell her, she might think I’ll never change. Like I’ll always need to be risking my life in order to be happy. That’s not it, I swear, I just…”_

_“I don’t think she wants you to change, Becks,” her argument is comforting, friendly and reasonable, but the Irish woman exhales heavily._

_“I don’t know,” the treasure hunter seals her lips. “I’m a lot to handle, I know that.”_

_“That’s not a bad thing. I think Charlotte likes the challenge,” an alternative perspective is presented, trying to get the other woman to reconsider._

_Tired eyes bore into the ocean. Tired, sunken-in eyes that swirl with an array of emotions. A breeze flows past the motel’s side, Becky feeling her hair tickle her face as the sun otherwise reflects in her gaze. Her body feels coiled, yet relaxed. An indescribable response to being so conflicted, yet also free. By all means, perhaps she’s conflicted_ because _she’s free. At this point, she has no idea what to think. She doesn’t know how to act, how to speak in a general sense, how to explain herself. She doesn’t know anything anymore._

_Next to her, Bayley notes her reluctance to think about the positives. Even after everything. Because of that, she doesn’t hold back her next reminder._

_“Do you remember when you first came to the race track?”_

_“When you asked me twenty-plus questions?” there’s a smirk on her face, side-eyeing the woman. “Yeah, I remember.”_

_Bayley laughs, “Well, that day, you told me something. And I thought about it a lot, throughout our time on the island. Because, while I somewhat understood what you meant, every piece of evidence to support your theory paled in comparison to things that opposed it.”_

_Her eyes narrow. She turns to her friend, having her lips twitch in intrigue._

_“You told me you’re notorious for having shit luck,” the navigator recalls. “And, yeah, you fall a lot. You’re clumsy as hell, and I witnessed that, firsthand.”_

_“Thanks for confirming it.”_

_“But I think you pay attention to your faults way more than the goodness surrounding you,” she gives insight, getting the other woman’s full attention as the joking smile drops from her persona. “We all have bad luck sometimes. Some people have bad luck more than others, okay… but you_ are _a lucky person.”_

_“How do you figure?” it’s not denying, nor judgmental and rude, however genuinely wondering._

_“You’re here,” the words are simply stated, said with a single nod. “Despite anything, you’re here.”_

_She watches Becky turn away, rolling her tongue behind her teeth._

_“You’ve experienced bad things, Becky, and I am not saying you haven’t. I can’t imagine going through what you have. I don’t_ want _to imagine,” the brunette bows her head, feeling almost guilty for having such an easy-going life. “Regardless, you’ve made it. Through everything,” a laugh comes out. “So, falling off a wall, or missing a jump? That’s nothing but a blip.”_

_The Irish woman takes in her words, nodding her head in admission._

_“Guess you’ve got a point there.”_

_“Plus, I think you’re a bit more lucky to have found someone in Charlotte who watches you survive on your own without turning away in case you_ do _need some help. She’s special.”_

_A reactive, watery smile creeps onto her face. Bashful and warm, yet sincere. She can’t look at Bayley, not when she feels so light and lovable, but the brunette can tell she’s struck something within her friend._

_“God help her, though,” Bayley’s next statement causes the redhead to turn to her, eyebrow quirked. “She sure as hell loves you.”_

_At the remark, Becky narrows her eyes._

_“That’s something Pinky woulda said to me,” it’s teasing, prying, and Bayley bites her tongue. “She’s already rubbing off on ya, hm? I see how it is. Tainting my innocent Softy,” the treasure hunter all but scoffs while looking away, crossing her arms._

_“We were marooned on a pirate island, being shot at,” the other woman’s retort is obvious and dull. “I think I was gonna be tainted, one way or another.”_

_“So, you admit it?”_

_“Admit what?”_

_“She’s tainting you.”_

_“I don’t kiss and tell,” it’s smooth, matched by a smirk and an unrestricted, smug expression that’s the least bit apologetic._

For another minute, after Bayley turned to walk away, Becky allowed her friend’s words to sink in. She allowed herself to revel in them, and understand a different view. How, perhaps, she’s not as big of a fuck-up as she’s believed, and that Charlotte’s temperament toward her should be evidence enough. The historian had been nothing but helpful and patient, despite the redhead’s dedication to being a pain. Sure, Becky was having a difficult time within her own head ━ something they all knew would happen more often, especially after such ghastly events ━ but it didn’t mean she was a lost cause. It didn’t mean that everyone should give up on her, or that she should give up on herself.

At the thought, she bowed her head with a deep breath exiting her lungs.

That was the beginning of her departure from the motel ━ both mentally and physically.

When she returned to the room, the four women exchanged numbers. A subtle way of making their friendship ━ their family of four ━ feel even more official than it already did. The following moments were harder, mostly on Becky’s end of things. They were less happy, and less easily managed.

Within minutes, the group had walked out of the motel and to the large, bus-like cab to take them to the airport. There, they threw their bags into its trunk before Becky gave them a gesture that she needed a minute. A minute of saying goodbye, Charlotte knew without the Irish woman uttering a single word. So, she waited next to the cab alongside Sasha and Bayley. The three women watching Becky who leaned against the room’s door frame, arms crossed with her head ducking every now and again. A painful, resigned posture that the historian sealed her lips at. Her feet stayed glued to where she stood next to the taxi, however. Something that Sasha frowned at.

_An elbow is shoved into her side. A telling elbow, getting her forehead to crease, in response. Turning to its source, the mercenary gives her a pair of wide eyes, and a subtle nod toward where Becky lingers in the room’s doorway._

_“What?”_

_“Shouldn’t you, like…” the same gesture is given, insinuating that she should check on the treasure hunter._

_“No,” following a short pause, the historian shakes her head and turns back to watch her partner have a special moment. “This is like a goodbye for her. A big one. She’s dealt with a lot while in this place, I can tell. I’m sure it’s not easy, but this is something she has to do on her own.”_

_“And what about you?”_

_“What about me?”_

_“How are you taking everything?”_

_Charlotte’s head slouches a fraction, peeking at Sasha through the obscure angle. A shrug responds to her question, and the mercenary rolls her eyes._

_“Yeah, you tried brushing me off before, too. I’m not letting you leave until you give me a solid answer, Charlotte.”_

_“I’m tired,” as she remains evading the woman’s eyes, she answers. “I’m just making sure she’s okay, first. After that, I’ll feel better. I just know something’s off. I can feel it.”_

_Beside her, Bayley keeps her lips sealed. She can’t say much, though she doesn’t stray from adding a sincere “You mean a great deal to her, Char. I’m sure there’s bound to be some fallout for all of us, after that island.”_

Their conversation was truncated when Becky’s hand dragged against the door frame of the motel room, followed by closing the door behind her. Her steps to approach them were cautious, Charlotte’s back straightening until she was faced by an obviously solemn smile. Unlike in instances earlier, Becky’s expression turned lighter ━ happier ━ as she continued to stare into blue-green eyes. She even reached for the historian’s hand, gingerly holding it while rubbing her thumb along her knuckles. A simple reassurance that they’d get through it, and that Charlotte still kept her feeling at ease.

It didn’t erase her difficulty when it came to being open with the blonde, despite her wishes to fix it. She knew that, for whatever reason, she was having a challenging time being sincere with both herself and her partner. As if something was blocking her from doing so, or preventing her tongue from speaking what she desires.

She knew she wasn’t being rejective toward the woman, no, but realizing that their kisses from the morning had been at a resounding count of zero wasn’t her favorite thing to come to terms with. It had merely spoken volumes of how different things became since they left the island. How real they became, and less explosive. Less spur-the-moment, and acting on impulse. After all, she and Charlotte have never exactly felt each other’s soul out of the workplace ━ out of the “adventurous” realm. Above that, Becky could tell they weren’t simple nerves keeping her from acting natural, either. She could tell that she was on the brink of having some sort of existential crisis, yet still didn’t know how to express it, nor ask for help.

Bayley and Sasha accompanied their two friends into the airport, once they filed out of the taxi. They even walked them to their terminal, giving them a comforting send-off with waves after a round of tight hugs and verbal goodbyes. Something that, again, choked the redhead up without being able to explain why.

For Charlotte and Becky, the ensuing flight was quiet. It was a lesser-known airline with scarce room, and the two of them sat closely together. They hardly spoke. Becky guesses their lack of conversation is what lulled the historian to sleep. Every now and again, she glanced in Charlotte’s direction and played with her partner’s fingers. Keeping herself sane while staring out the window and observing the dark, nighttime sky, plus the lights beneath them when they passed through the clouds. With time, she’d doze off. Leaning against the blonde, and keeping herself calm by listening to Charlotte’s quiet snores.

The tranquility ended in an abrupt halt, much like the night before. Again, she woke up startled. Not as terrible as when she was in the hospital, but enough to jolt herself upright and whip her head around until she acknowledged the events that lead her to where she was. It didn’t soothe her anger, on the other hand. The anger that formulated at the idea of feeling so lost, so constantly. Even with the blonde by her side, she still felt so goddamn lost and clueless about everything. Luckily, her internal tension eased as they neared Oslo. As Charlotte woke up, and she wasn’t necessarily alone anymore.

What didn’t ease was their silence. That godforsaken, awkward silence. The thickening wall that persisted to build as they crept closer to Charlotte’s apartment in the confines of the taxi. They swayed with its bumps, peering through the dark streets lit by lamp-posts as they stared through opposite windows.

From what Becky could see, the town, itself, was nice. It was serene, and uncrowded in the part where the historian normally resides. Houses and apartment buildings sat close together. Scattered parks around the area. Old-looking, iron lampposts lining the streets and cobblestone paths up to an assortment of buildings. Trimmed shrubbery and adolescent trees decorating the green spaces, along with colorful flowers dimmed by the shadowy night. To the newfound surroundings, she gifted the area a warm smile. A smile harboring hope that she can, someday, feel at home here. If Charlotte wants her to stick around, that is.

The unknowing thought derailed Becky’s happiness again. Like the lighthearted emotion has turned into something that appears so randomly, so rarely, before dropping from her mind within the blink of an eye. She sighed through her nostrils, stepping out of the car once it stopped.

 _“You can manage?”_ Charlotte looked at Becky who carried her own, two bags, refusing to have help ━ although, that time, the blonde didn’t even bother wondering if she needed it.

A worrisome thing, on its own, considering how dedicated Charlotte had been to taking care of her, even when Becky didn’t want that help. She swallowed her nerves, flashing her a tight-lipped smile as she hummed in affirmation.

At the shaky reaction, her partner looked as if she wanted to say something more. As if she was, likewise, bored of feeling so stiff and misplaced. As if she was about to ask Becky what her problem is, too, even if it’d be heard in a brash way. There was a shade of hurt amongst her features, a pattern of rejection that creased her forehead, though dismissed when she, instead, nodded before turning away.

Their trudge up two flights of stairs was slow and, for Becky’s side, agonizing. Charlotte noticed, giving her a guilty _“I’m sorry for the stairs”_ that the redhead waved off.

 _“I’ve climbed rock walls and swung over cracks in the Earth. I can handle a few stairs, injured or not,”_ putting on a costume of playfulness, she responded with an uncanny resemblance of her usual personality.

Much to her contentedness, she earned a smile. A snicker, too. It granted her a segment of hope that she’s needed for the past day. It made her heart feel a fraction lighter, and her head ease up from its inner turmoil. Soon, they’d be━

“Okay,” breaking her partner’s mental focus, Charlotte breathes out as she closes the apartment door with a creak, “that’s everything.”

Lingering across from Becky, the two stare at each other. The awkwardness filling the air, as the redhead somewhat nods in agreement that they’re all set. They’re confined to the apartment now. The pair of them, together, alone. No knowledge of what they’re doing tomorrow, or what they’ll discuss. _If_ they discuss anything, judging by how silent they’ve been.

Charlotte seems stirred by the quietude as her partner doesn’t respond. She rocks on her heels, hands clasped in front of her before she decides to break the tension. A desperate attempt at saving her own sanity.

“I know it’s late, but, um… are you hungry, or…?”

It’s punctuated by a gesture to the kitchen behind her, being merely a step out of the space and into the living area of the apartment. There’s a hopefulness in her voice, too, like she’s borderline pleading with Becky to help her out. To not be so dysfunctional, or out of place. The Irish woman detects it, feeling guilty. More than before, even. Derailing her attempts to not appear so obscure, her eyes slightly widen at the question with her mouth fumbling open. She forces it shut, shaking her head at her lack of confidence for something so little.

“No. No, thanks. I’m good,” the rapid-fire answer is paired with a see-through smile. “The—the medicine kind of… made me… nauseous. Not bad, but… enough,” there are consistent breaks during her explanation, Charlotte picking up on how uncomfortable she is.

“Are you okay?” her eyebrows furrow in concern, taking a small step forward. “That might mean that you _need_ something to eat. I don’t remember when you last had anything.”

“I don’t, either,” the treasure hunter snickers. “I’m too tired to eat.”

The other woman blinks, then licks her lips. Confused on how to extend the simple conversation, but yearning to hear Becky’s voice for longer than she has all day. A sad thought on its own, given that she feels the need to find an excuse to hear it. The notion reminds her of how different they’ve acted today. How distorted, and un-cohesive. How unlike them, since they left the island. She doesn’t like it. Not one bit. Unrealistically, she wishes they could redo the past day. She wishes she could feel like they haven’t fallen out of love. Then again, were they ever _in_ love?

Her throat tightens, then she loosens it by force.

“If you need anything, let me know. I can always…” again, she waves to the kitchen, then hesitates. “Or you’re always welcome to fix yourself something. Feel free here.”

The addition is jumped-to, hoping that she makes her home a mutual place of safety for the woman in front of her. If you were to ask the historian, she’d admit that she hopes Becky grows accustomed to the place enough to want to stick around. Based off of the Irish woman’s attitude since they’ve walked in together, she’s not sure that’ll become a reality. Currently, it seems as though the redhead is pulling away as much as she can. Putting distance between them, and a wall of protection. For whatever reason, she’s trying to escape. If that’s the case, Charlotte wouldn’t ever ask her to stay somewhere she doesn’t feel secure, or happy. Even if that means breaking her own heart, in the process.

Becky can see something in her eyes. A flicker of pain. A waft of nervousness. Tears, more than anything. Directly speaking, she knows it’s in regards to them. In regards to her, and how stupidly she’s acted today. She knows that the awkwardness isn’t just suffocating herself, but also depleting Charlotte’s energy. Especially given in the way the blonde seals her lips, then rubs her arm until she can alleviate her own pain and push away the tears.

“Thanks,” the treasure hunter says after a beat, making sure to appear warm.

A nod comes. Charlotte chews her inner cheek, then looks at her again.

“If you’re tired, we can go to bed,” her hand waves to one of the two doors in a stubby hallway, jutting from the living room. “It’s in there, by the way. Bathroom’s next to it.”

Something Becky hadn’t thought of earlier hits her in the throat. Suddenly, and without warning. Brown eyes stare through the bedroom’s cracked door, then they flicker back to the couch next to her. Regretfully so, almost. Confusingly, moreover, and clouded with decision. From what Charlotte thinks, at least.

At the Irish woman’s obvious conflict, her posture straightens. Her heart sinks further into her chest, feeling a pain spring into her palms as she wishes to ball them into fists. Attempting her hardest to keep herself from crying. A ringing between her ears, threatening to break her down where she stands.

“What is it?” the historian finds her voice, making sure to not sound as choked up as she feels.

She’s turned to, Becky’s mouth opening. At first, nothing comes out. Like most of the day, she can’t grasp for the answer when she tries to. Her eyebrows raise, and she bows her head. Having to clear her throat, and clamor around her mind for the right words. The right explanation as to why she’s questioning something so silly, so small. How she didn’t know that Charlotte would outright want to sleep with her, once they got back to the mainland. How, for whatever reason, she believed that the historian would take to the notion of “baby steps” in terms of their relationship, yet now she’s even more confused that Charlotte apparently doesn’t. It’s relieving, in a way, but also…

What the fuck are they doing? What the fuck is she, herself, doing?

“I… I didn’t know if…”

At Becky’s never-finishing retort, the historian puts two and two together. Realizing that Becky wondered if she’d sit her on the couch for the night, or for however-long that she stays here. The woman assumed so, rather than wondered. For some reason, she figured that Charlotte would want to stay apart. That she’d treat her as a common guest, in the apartment. Not like what the historian has been thinking of them as: a couple. Admittedly, it’s the only term that’s been on her mind. Now, questions run rampant within her own head. Did she jump the gun in expecting them to act like two people who can’t get enough of each other? Did she brand them as being exclusive ━ even without verbalizing it ━ too soon?

To the blonde, the insinuation hurts deeply. It tightens her throat, keeping it locked in a choke-hold. The implication that the redhead thought she’d be that uptight and unwelcoming when they got back home, that _unlovable…_ it stings. It makes her wonder where their couple-like nature went, from when they were on the island. It makes her wonder if Becky is reconsidering their closeness, too.

God, she never knew she’d miss such a dangerous place. Somewhere that _forced_ them to cooperate, and to talk things out. Here, it’s evident that they’ve lost the idea of what it means to work together. To discuss, and plan, and listen, and… be real.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” Charlotte argues, quietly. “We’ve slept next to each other quite a few times now. Amongst other things,” it’s said beneath her breath, with a tiny blush. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know. I guess I figured there was no other option for you. Those times sleepin’ nearby. Now, there’s… a couch,” her voice cracks as she looks at the piece of furniture, waving a hand toward it.

“Well, I won’t force you to sleep in my bed. Whatever you’re more comfortable with, Becks.”

She detects the pang of hurt in Charlotte’s souring attitude. Furthermore provided in the way she turns around and shrugs. Beginning to drag herself to the bedroom while running a hand through her hair, frustratedly so.

“No, you’re not forcing at all,” the treasure hunter takes a step forward in plead with her to turn back around ━ which she does, standing by her bedroom door. “I just━I didn’t want to intrude, is all. I’d be happy to accompany you in bed.”

That uncanny, plastic smile is put on. Unlike other times, Charlotte doesn’t even attempt to mirror it. At Becky’s desperate attempt to make it seem like she’s unbothered by sleeping in the same bed, the other woman raises her eyebrows, then turns away once more. They both feel the growing nerves between them, the mounting questions and regrets that ━ _God_ ━ they should’ve spoken about everything when they were back on the island. When they had time to, or even when they didn’t. They should’ve _made_ time, like Charlotte proposed. They should’ve forced themselves to blurt anything and everything out, just to make sure they could avoid these swirling questions and unknowingness.

Because, added to Becky’s questions about herself, now she has to wonder what Charlotte thinks. What she wants, and what she doesn’t. She has to wonder what they are, or what they’ll be. Where they’re going, what they’re doing, how they’re going to work through such mind-numbing obstacles. How they’re going to smash through Becky’s remaining walls of apprehension and self-sabotage. She can’t stop the piling thoughts and grievances, either. She can’t ignore them, or pretend they aren’t there. And, fuck, she still can’t find the wherewithal or courage to confess to Charlotte that, no, she’s not okay. She’s not okay. She’s _not._

Instead, the Irish woman pretends that she’s not suffocating. As she kicks off her casual boots by the door, drops her bags, and begrudgingly says goodnight to Paige’s leather jacket, as she follows Charlotte into the bedroom… she has to pretend that the walls aren’t closing in on her. Those beige-colored, bedroom walls with basic pictures and other mementos. Charlotte’s achievements, to boot. She has to pretend the bedspread isn’t staring her right in the face. The pinstripes of the white and grey comforter, the infinite pillows that are fluffed and ready to be used as the historian gets it prepared for them to sleep.

When she turns to face Becky, she notices the vacancy in her eyes. The widened state of her gaze, even minutely so. She almost pauses to ask if something else happened, but doesn’t. Realistically, she goes about fixing the bedding so they can sleep the night away, and hopefully restart tomorrow. So they can hopefully be better tomorrow, or have enough energy to talk about what’s wrong. Because, clearly, there’s something very amiss between them. Sadly, at the rate Becky is going, she’s not sure that’s a decent possibility. The talking, and the explaining. The discussion they should’ve had, a day ago. Hours ago, even.

Unfortunately, she’s starting to wonder if it’s best she leaves the redhead alone to fix things. To tell her to go somewhere, to think, to ask herself what she wants before returning. On the other hand, if the problem is between them, then isn’t it best Charlotte asks? Isn’t it best that she tries her hardest to make things work until Becky finds the strength to confront whatever-it-is?

Her lips purse, eyes closing in dismay.

“Do you have a certain side you prefer?”

Refocusing and lifting her chin, she sees Becky staring at her. Pointing to the bed, nimbly so. Hesitantly, she shakes her head.

“Pick whichever you’d like,” the historian grins weakly. “I’m going to shut the lights off. I guess we can unpack tomorrow.”

Before Becky can even formulate a dignified response, Charlotte leaves the room. The Irish woman watches her leave with a quickness, a desperation to escape, her guilt constricting her veins. She knows she fucked up, no matter what Bayley told her earlier. She continues to fuck up. Something tells her that she’ll never stop, and that she’ll always be that toxicity in her friends’ lives. In Charlotte’s life. So maybe “toxicity” isn’t the word, but perhaps “stain.” She’s the weak link, and does more harm than good. She destroys everything she touches, or cripples it.

At the tightening feeling of her body, at the pestering, hereditary depression that threatens to sink into her veins with a permanence, she attempts to wave away the solemn musings. The everlasting guilt that she’d constructed throughout the day, by her own hand. Tomorrow should be better, she thinks. It has to be. She prays it is.

To distract herself, she peels back the comforter nearer to the bedroom door. Sitting on the mattress’ edge, the bed creaks below her, and her side aches. Her hand rubs at the area, gently so in order to not disturb the bandage beneath. Lifting her shirt, she attempts to see the wrappings of her operation. Poking at the area, as well, when she finds a discolored patch of bruising.

“Do you want to take the gauze off for the night? So you can let it get some air? They said you’re allowed.”

Walking around the bed’s edge, Charlotte waits for an answer once she’s standing near her pillows. Becky faces forward once she glances at the other woman, shaking her head to negate the option.

“I don’t want to risk it draining at all,” they mutually begin lying themselves down, Charlotte clicking off the sole lamp on her bedside table so she can leave them in darkness. “Wouldn’t make for a good first night in your bed.”

“Seriously, if that’s what you’re worried about━”

“I’m only kidding,” Becky cuts her off when she hears the impending lecture, being a bit more forceful than intended. “I don’t think I’d be comfortable with it rubbing against my shirt tonight,” her voice lowers, feeling embarrassed by her own sharp reaction.

“‘Kay.”

Brown eyes close at her accidental outburst, and at Charlotte’s defense. Also at the way the blonde lies close next to her, yet too far apart. Much further than when they had the entire cave to move around in, ironically. They both stare at the ceiling, looking at nothing in particular while lost in their heads. They can’t even feel each other moving, or breathing. As if there’s an ocean between them, despite being able to reach over and cling onto one another. Every now and then, the light of a passing car glides across the ceiling. Obstructing the darkness, but barely. It’s calming in itself, especially to Becky who feels the soft bedding beneath her body. Even if she _could_ move, she wouldn’t want to. It’s nice, after the hospital bed’s lack of composure, and the cave floor’s even lesser composure.

“Are you okay, Becks?” the out-of-nowhere question catches her off-guard, more so with the way Charlotte asks it, so full of hurt and begging of her to be honest. “I don’t mean to keep asking, but you’ve been quiet.”

Her mouth opens and closes. Then, her eyes shut. A breath exits her cracked lips, side-eyeing Charlotte before the historian gets the hint. Before she understands that she’s asked one too many times, and that, now, the question is merely standard. She shakes her head.

“You don’t have to answer. I know you’re tired.”

“It’s just my head,” Becky blurts out, not wanting to damage Charlotte anymore than she already has. “It’s…” the explanation stops, then reroutes. “I’ll be okay.”

For the first time since lying down, her partner turns to her. Pinpointing the sound of Becky trying to convince herself of something that even she’s unsure of. Her eyes don’t reveal it, in actuality. Instead, there’s only formidable sadness written across Charlotte’s features. Clouding her eyes, and darkening her face more than the room’s shadows do. Becky sees it, once she faces the other woman. Her heart swells, and her lips part.

“We’ll be okay.”

The decisiveness in her tone does the opposite effect of what it usually would. Like Becky is solely putting on a front, and pretending that she believes what she’s saying. Like she thought it would ease Charlotte’s mind to hear something so honest, so raw, without there being real emotion and sincerity behind it. The words are hollow, and it’s obvious.

This time, Charlotte is the one to hesitate. To have her mouth open, and nothing come out. Her lower lip even quivers slightly, though Becky doesn’t see it. She doesn’t have the chance to, really. Not when the historian turns away without another word. Facing the opposite direction, staring at the window while nodding her head against the pillowcase. Curling into it, and clawing at the fabric without Becky being able to see or hear.

“Yeah,” the historian says, muscles tightening. “We’ll be okay.”

The dryness in her tone causes Becky’s eyes to flutter shut. To close in irritation, and agony. An unfortunate result of her own actions, and her own reservations. Her own reluctance to be open, and to be honest. To keep herself unlocked to the woman next to her, despite everything she told herself when she was high on adrenaline. “I’ll be better,” she said. “I won’t mess this up,” she said. “I’ll make up for my wrong-doings, and I’ll be a better person for myself and for Charlotte,” she said.

What a load of fucking crap.

Maybe she made a mistake trying to domesticate herself. Maybe she should’ve never said that she could perhaps stop this frantic life and settle down in any way, shape, or form. Maybe she should’ve dropped them off in Madagascar, then took off on her own. To disappear, to change her name, to keep to herself after she said goodbye. She could’ve done it right this time. She could’ve told Charlotte what she was doing. How she can’t be who the historian wants her to be ━ who she _thinks_ the blonde wants her to be ━ and how she’ll probably never escape this high-impact life that’s so scary, so nerve-grinding. No matter how much she wants to, or tries to. She’ll never escape the obsession of living at the highest speed.

But saying that would’ve meant letting Charlotte go. That would’ve meant having the ultimate goodbye with the person she’s come to know and love. Admittedly, wholeheartedly, love. The person she’s in love with, and will never _not_ be in love with. The person who’s calmed her storms, in the worst of times, even when she figured no one would ever be able to. The person who ━ if she did explain what’s happening in her mind ━ would understand, or at least attempt to. There’s no doubt that the historian would try her best, and she’d continue to be the patient, caring person that Becky fell in love with. The woman she continues to fall in love with even deeper, in spite of the day’s hazardously scarce conversation between them.

A tear drips down her temple when she turns over to face away from Charlotte. She chews her inner cheek when she lies on her right, keeping her left side free yet managing to snuggle further into the blankets. They smell like the blonde, she thinks. Her subtle perfume, yet unmistakable. With a tiny smile, it causes her eyes to flutter shut.

This time, they stay shut. As her thoughts begin to dwindle, sleep gradually begins to claim her, and, finally, she allows it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoopsies. Looks like Becky's gone a bit too far into her own head. Again.
> 
> There's a lot to digest here. Like I said in the beginning author's note: It was designed to be a flashback-heavy chapter, and that's because, while I wanted to start the chapter in Charlotte's apartment, I didn't want to simply explain how we got from them being so happy-happy to being very awkward around one another. I needed to utilize flashbacks and memories to show how they gradually fell off the wagon together. I hope I accomplished that.
> 
> Nevertheless, yay for Baysha, heading off to Cape Cod and then sticking together (c'mon, we know they're gonna). Nay for Charlynch being so... meh. 
> 
> I'll say, upfront, that it's not just Becky who's having a hard time adjusting to what's around her. Charlotte is also like, "Wow, this is really happening," however she's trying her best to cater to Becky. Alas, that doesn't always work out, especially when Becky implies that she figured Charlotte would just sit her on the couch. To Charlotte, that was a little slap in the face, and Becky's awkwardness makes her feel like she's done something terribly wrong. Quite frankly, it's become a mess within 0.02 seconds, and it's all my fault. I know, I know, I'm sorry.
> 
> ON THE BRIGHT SIDE (!), you never break apart a puzzle without intent of having it fixed again. I'm no different. I will say this: it has to get worse before it gets better, but once it gets better then you'll know why things happened the way that they did. I wouldn't leave you without a happy ending for our beloved ladies. I don't think I'd even do that to myself, really. 
> 
> Next chapter will SERIOUSLY delve into Becky's mind. I won't just explain it in my "narration," but she's going to actually give us a lengthy explanation as to what she's thinking, why it's happening, and how they can move forward. Becky has grown since the beginning. We know that, and I'm never going to negate that arc. So, for those who believe this is out of character for her confidence to simply... drop off. You're right. It is. And she absolutely recognizes that. It's the idea of being human that scares her, but her common sense doesn't *want* to be scared about it. She's at a stalemate with herself, but she's going to get over it. I'm excited for you to see what I have in store. I really am. TOMORROW!
> 
> In a more general sense, I think a lot of you (a handful, anyway + myself) have been wondering if I have anything planned for after this story is finished. It's a given that this universe will live on, by itself. Whether or not I pack more writing into it. However, would you fine specimens be content with seeing more of this universe? I know some of you may say, "Duh," as if it's obvious, but, believe it or not, I once had a fandom that wanted me to move onto a different universe. Shocking, I know. So, let me know in the reviews if you would like to read any more of this Uncharted AU. Either way (despite your answer), I already have a bounty of ideas for Uncharted AU domestic Charlynch, I have a few Uncharted AU Baysha ideas, etc. Enough for a one-shot collection that I can add to whenever I feel up to par for writing some more, especially because I personally would love to see "normal life" for these two pairings. If you'd like to read more of this universe, let me know, and I'll certainly take that into account. AND, in that case, you might as well follow my AO3 account, my Tumblr ("wwe-charlie"), and/or my Twitter ("wwecharlie_") so you can be notified when I post the collection -- as it wouldn't be on this same fic thread. 
> 
> Anyway, since this is getting lengthy, I'll end my speech here. Don't forget that I'll be back tomorrow to close this dinosaur of a story out (I'm already crying, btw). I feel like I'm saying goodbye to my long-time family (y'all), wow. Okay, until then, have a nice day/night/morning/whatever. Thank you!


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready?
> 
> Spoiler alert: I'm not.
> 
> I have so much to say at the end of this, so, since I'm sure you're ready to see what's happening in Becky's head, I'll let you proceed earlier than usual. Before then (since I couldn't fit this piece of info in the bottom author's note), remember to follow my Tumblr ("wwe-charlie") and/or my Twitter ("wwecharlie_") if you'd like. I'm always open to conversation, either place. Thank you.
> 
> Okay, proceed.

THURS., 8:54 A.M.

* * *

The early morning, adolescent sunlight creates a red film through her eyelids. An annoying sting coming with it, creasing her forehead while her nose scrunches up. A last-ditch attempt at fending off the brightness that interrupts her deep slumber. No avail. In fact, when she turns onto the flat of her back to get away from the window’s brightness, every combined factor does the opposite effect. It’s too late. Now, her body grasps onto the rejuvenation, and it rouses itself for the day ahead. A sleepy grunt exiting her throat, bringing her hands up to rub at her eyes.

Harsh sunlight and aching bones aside, she can tell she slept soundly. She can tell, judging by her hair being felt tousled and tangled, matted against the pillow, that she acquired a solid night’s rest. Even despite yesterday’s problematic friction between her and the redhead, the night was kind to her mind. The unstirred hours cleared it up a decent amount, and they let her get some much-needed peace. No bad dreams, no horrid nightmares. Just simple tranquility with her eyes closed.

But, turning to her right, she realizes that maybe she slept a little too soundly.

Inches away is an empty bedside. Not just that, either. Next to her is a _made_ bedside. Pinstripe comforter flattened out, tucked over the pillows, appearing as if no one slept there at all. If the historian wasn’t sure that Becky fell asleep with her, if she wasn’t sure that the Irish woman came home with her, then she’d question if it was all a dream. She’d question if their awkward travels back to Oslo and throughout the evening were a manufactured, unconscious thought.

No, it was real.

This sure feels like a nightmare, though. Maybe it isn’t so peachy that she didn’t have a bad night. Maybe it’s not the best-case scenario that she slept through everything, and woke up feeling energized. Feeling ready for the day ahead. At this point, with the rampant thoughts stirring in her mind, she wonders if she would rather have had a bad night instead of what’s making into a solemn morning. A frantic morning, in a way, aside from the fact that she has yet to move. Like she’s paralyzed, or too nervous to have her suspicions confirmed.

Slowly, she pushes her body upwards into a sitting position. Glancing at Becky’s bedside table in wonderance if she’ll find something. A sign that the redhead didn’t just up and leave like she’s already thinking. A note, or something tangible for Charlotte to pick up and read.

Nothing.

“Becky?”

The tremor in her voice is severe. Sleep still clouds her body, having a raspiness in her throat. A sourness in her gut, although that’s more from the unsettling silence of the apartment. The resounding answer to the treasure hunter’s name, being not an answer at all. Not one she wants to hear, at least.

Her heart’s deliberate beating sounds in her ear. She can hear it thumping while her blood warms itself within her veins. Toppling and swirling emotions causing her stomach to do flips while likewise sinking deep into her lower torso with inability to revive itself. Tears spring into her eyes, but she pushes them away. Physically, to a point, as she wipes her eye sockets hard. Pushing the backs of her wrists against the area, seeing colored shapes and sparks, then sighing. Against the attempts to hide her building sadness, a whine mixes with the sigh. A whimper, more like, or some sort of frustrated squeak.

As her feet press to the floor, the weight of the situation catches up to her. She feels frail, and timid. Shaking inside, and ready to throw up. Like a creature fallen into a new environment, not knowing what to do or how to react. She feels… _small._ Helpless, in a way. Worse than the night before, except, now, it seems as though she’s missed her chance at figuring out how to fix it.

“Becks, are you here?” as she begins to walk from the bedroom, her voice rings through the apartment.

She knows it’s silly to ask again, especially when, deep down, she already knows the answer.

Becky left. Again.

If she wasn’t sure right as she caught sight of the freshly made bedside, the vacant and bright apartment would be enough of an indication. The still air, and the untouched furniture. The lack of notice that Becky was anywhere inside of the space, the lack of factors pointing to the Irish woman even relatively attempting to take care of herself before ━ theoretically speaking ━ walking out.

For a moment, ocean eyes glance around the room as if it’ll surprise her with some sign that she’s reading everything wrong. That she’s overreacting, and Becky merely stepped out for a minute. A coffee-run, perhaps. A _run_ run, since that seems to be her pace. Maybe she had to go to the store for a necessity she didn’t take back with her, or maybe her side started throbbing so bad that she needed something more at the pharmacy down the road. Maybe she went sight-seeing, or on a mission to grow accustomed to the neighborhood.

Within seconds of standing within the silent apartment’s main space, Charlotte gets that desired sign. However, unlike catering to the acute sense of optimism she was desperately clinging onto, the sign she gets is only affirmation of her initial theory.

Becky _really_ left. _Again._

Looking toward the apartment door, the Irish woman’s leather jacket is gone. Her beloved piece of attire, taken from the wall hook and leaving an empty space where it resided, last night. Below the hook, her boots: gone. Most of all, both of her bags are gone. The door is halfway locked, too. The top, sliding bolt unlatched, however the doorknob’s personal lock is fastened ━ something done prior to closing the door. Everything else remains untouched. Un-tinkered with, and otherwise left how everything was when they first arrived back at the apartment. As it stands, there’s no drop of evidence that Becky ever stepped foot into her home, but there’s all the evidence that she left.

Whatever shred of hope Charlotte was clinging onto diminishes within the blink of an eye. Whatever aspect of thinking that they could ━ today ━ fix whatever happened yesterday is now sinking through the cracks in her fingers. Whatever ounce of her that believed she’d finally be able to get out that persisting “I love you” that’s lingered almost since they first met has now evaporated into the air. She missed her chance for all of it. She had a perfect opportunity, yesterday, to mend the ongoing wounds, but she chose to let it dwindle as they slept. Thinking it would clear up with some rest, at least a little, and that this morning would be better. Sleep isn’t a substitute for communication, though. By now, she should know better.

It was all so stupid, and she knows it. All throughout yesterday, she could tell something was amiss with her partner. Something was strange, and off, and _wrong._ Even with Sasha and Bayley, Becky acted reserved and questioning of her own existence. Stagnant, in a way, or second-guessing of basic responses and reactions. Like she had no idea what she was doing here on Earth.

When brown eyes stared into hers and she expressed that they’d be okay, Charlotte knew she should’ve mentally pressed forward and asked ━ right then ━ to talk about it. She could’ve used another “I’m not asking this time” against the other woman in hopes of consistently battering against her resolve. Sure, her hopes more so lied within giving Becky space. They lied within giving her enough freedom to know that, if necessary, she’s always open to discussion about anything. That’s what she’s wanted their relationship to be based on. Mutual understanding, trust, and sincerity.

Realistically, in her attempts to give the treasure hunter that freedom, it appears that ━ potentially ━ she made it seem like she didn’t care enough to understand Becky’s perspective. Last night, she could tell that’s part of the emotion that swam through those sunken-in, brown eyes. She could tell that the redhead believed she’s a lost cause, and that Charlotte was giving up. That she was tired of trying to comprehend how the Irish woman operates, and exhausted from her being so back and forth.

By all means, Charlotte didn’t necessarily negate that belief, either. She certainly didn’t prove the hunter wrong, in that aspect. One example being when Becky’s eyes drifted from the bedroom door, to the couch. Silently questioning the historian’s assumption that they’d be sleeping together. At the time, Charlotte felt hurt. Hell, she still does. Knowing that Becky thought she’d sit her down on the couch as a common house-guest, after what they’d done and been through together… it hurt. All the blonde has wanted is to be everything with Becky. Every term, every shade of best friend and couple. She’s wanted it all with her, even if that meant putting herself at risk for getting her heart broken again.

A bittersweet chuckle shakes her chest. Then, her bottom lip quivers.

No matter Becky’s reasoning for leaving, against Charlotte’s common sense and natural reaction, she can’t help but feel more sad than angry this time. She can’t help but feel sympathetic for the woman who ━ without a doubt ━ ran away again out of fear. Maybe she felt suffocated, or closed in. Maybe she thought Charlotte was forcing something upon her that’s just not as simple as she made it out to be.

Truthfully, the historian doesn’t know her reasoning. While she wishes she could say she doesn’t care, while she wishes she was angry at Becky for making a home in her heart before wrecking it once more… she can’t. After everything, in spite of the pain, the blonde just wants her to be safe. To be happy in her own head, her own thoughts, and to live however she feels dignified.

Most of all, she wants Becky to return. She hopes she does, at least.

Tired eyes lift to the counter across the room. There, her cell phone sits in the corner. Currently sporting a full charge, and waiting to be used. Her lips rub together, walking over to the device with heavy steps, and hesitantly moving to her contact list.

For a second, her thumb hovers over Sasha’s name. A yearning in her heart to ask the mercenary if she’s heard from Becky, even so early in the morning. Who knows if the redhead sent out a notice to the two other women, just to cover her tracks. Just as a precaution against Charlotte’s inevitable worries. The historian wouldn’t put it past her.

The lump in her throat grows heavier. A tear trickles down her cheek, having to wipe it away with her pointer finger. She sniffles, then scrolls through her phone’s list. Making a decision, she puffs out a shallow breath through the crack of her lips. Ignoring her better judgement, she gives into her heart’s imploring nature. She caters to her sanity, and attempts to give herself a peace of mind. Even just a fraction of it. Something to at least get her through the day.

Becky’s name sits on her screen with an empty message log. Her eyes bore into the woman’s name, thumbs hovering above the keypad until she sighs through her nose. Typing a quick message, then hitting send before she can go about her day. Before she can attempt to stifle the stinging in her chest, and the ache in her limbs. Most of all, before she can let her tears drip down her cheeks freely, and wait around to wonder if she’ll ever hear from Becky again.

All but dropping her phone onto the counter so she can rush to the bathroom, the screen remains open to the conversation. The lone message, left in a bubble and waiting to be responded to:

_“Please just tell me you’re okay.”_

 

* * *

THURS., 9:05 P.M.

* * *

Her glass’ cool rim touches to her lips. Gently clinking against two of her teeth while inviting the dark contents past her tongue. The whiskey slithering down her throat while hardly tasting it. Regardless, the leftover stinging in her mouth crinkles her nose, but she shakes off the putrid reaction. She brushes it off, and takes a longer sip. Constantly nursing the drink until it’s gone. Until it’s done its job to its best ability, and she feels different.

Once it _is_ finished, the bottle is kept nearby. A precaution against her wild, restless thoughts, or so Charlotte claims. A painful precaution, at that. A less fun one, she side-eyes the tequila in her cabinet. The tequila she’d shaken her head at when wondering what she’d drown her sorrows in. When she had opened the liquor cabinet, right up front was the tequila. Staring her in the face, and beckoning for her to reach for it. Normally, she would. Normally, she’d stifle nerves or simply unwind using a lesser sting against her tongue. A less-disgusting coping mechanism ━ if she can even call it that.

This wasn’t a normal instance, though. This was pain, and a growing ache within her chest. Within her limbs, her muscles, her mind, her everything. Most of all: this was a cause surrounding Becky’s existence ━ or her non-existence where she _should_ be. With the blonde, specifically. And, despite the effects of whiskey and tequila being relatively the same, the latter only reminded her of the Irish woman more. All of their scarce banter involving the substance, both before and on the island. Becky’s teasing about it. How Charlotte never struck her as a whiskey person, and how the historian confirmed that suspicion. How the redhead inadvertently implied that she needs tequila to have fun. It all brings her back to Becky and her patented personality. Her unique persona, and outspoken tongue.

She already misses her more than she’d like to admit. Unlike earlier, the upset has shifted into that of a quiet rejection. A mixture of self-questioning, sadness, and a hint of anger. Although, truthfully, Charlotte knows the whiskey has brought about the reddened, fiery emotion. The feeling isn’t that strong, no, and she wouldn’t act upon that simmering irritation. If you were to ask the historian, she’d confess that the feeling of loneliness is the kicker. She’d confess that it’s what’s been grinding on her the most.

Is she not worth it? Is she not worth sticking around? Did she do something differently? Something too different, that she hadn’t done on the island? Something that chased Becky away, or made her think that this wouldn’t work? Was she silly to think that the redhead would stick around? Did she falsely make them out to be an exclusivity that they never were? Beyond that, did she accidentally view them as something that they were _never_ going to be?

A sigh exits her nose, reaching for her glass again. Another attempt to take some of the edge off, little by little. She stares past the wall of her glass while she sips it, eyes boring into the TV without paying much attention. In fact, she’s not even sure what’s playing right now. Her gaze has been too absentminded, too tired, and too unfocused.

It’s been like that for most of the day, actually. Even when she attempted to clear her mind by showering in the comfort of her own bathroom, her thoughts stayed directed onto Becky. Onto her opened text conversation that ━ as it stands ━ remains one-sided. Tears fell without reservation while she stood beneath the shower head. Sobs came from her throat, after that, in spite of attempting to cover her mouth before she choked them out. In the end, she knew it was best to let it escape her system. To uncoil herself, even just a tad. So, she did.

Following the shower that hardly cleansed her mind like she set out to do, some comfortable pajama shorts and an even-more comfortable, grey hoodie was thrown on. The perfect, lounging outfit to stay inside with. To cry in, she snickered to herself. Her darkened comedy persisted throughout the day, almost talking to herself in a few scenarios.

Otherwise, Charlotte hasn’t wanted to do much else. She hasn’t had the stomach to eat, or the energy to clean. She hasn’t wanted to sleep in fear that Becky will actually return ━ a pathetic thought, she’s aware. Either way, the time has passed quickly while simultaneously feeling extended. She’s paid attention to it, for the most part. Checking her phone for a message back, still wondering if she should ask Sasha and Bayley if they’ve heard from Becky, shaking her head, glancing at the time, then placing the device back down. A vicious cycle. Each time, her brain would automatically calculate how long it’s been since she woke up alone. Each time, it would theorize what the final straw was that made Becky leave, and what time she ran out.

Where she went, how she got there, how her side is faring, what her mindset is like, if she’ll ever come back, if she’s okay.

The blonde wishes to know all of it. Because, even through her mild anger and massive feeling of unworthiness, her fear on behalf of the other woman’s likely panic… she sincerely still means what she sent to Becky, hours ago:

_“Please just tell me you’re okay.”_

That’s all she wants to know. That’s it. _God,_ that’s it.

Ocean eyes brim with tears. Watering to their maximum state as the drops line the bottoms of her eyes. Distorting her vision before she willfully closes them, letting the tears drip down her cheeks. Shallow breaths exit her throat, having to seal her lips before pressing her tongue to her inner cheek. When she refocuses, her eyes flicker to the whiskey bottle. The promises of forgotten memories being prominent in its caramelized color. The adulterated comfort telling her that it’ll let the pain dwindle enough for her to sleep the night away.

Given her mind’s current state, she knows she won’t get a wink of sleep tonight. She knows her brain won’t shut off, or allow her to rest easy without knowing that Becky is okay. Without knowing that━

Her heart all but falls into the pit of her stomach when there’s a knock at her door. The sound of hesitance coming through the grey-colored wood. Three bumps, being unmistakable.

For a second, while staring at the barrier, she wonders if she’s imagining things. If she’s realistically had a little too much to drink, and she passed out. Or maybe she’s just gone delusional under the power of heartbreak. But, truthfully, she knows. She knows the knock was real, and she knows who’s standing behind the door. She can tell.

Forcibly sealing her lips into a straight line, Charlotte pushes herself up from the couch so she can answer the door. Her hand runs through her hair, letting it fall messily against her shoulders as she pulls out any and every distraction she can find on the way to her apartment’s entrance. The walk feels like a mile, though it’s perhaps ten feet away within the dimmed space.

Five feet.

Three.

Two.

One.

Her hand hovers above the doorknob. Not knowing why, and not intentionally hesitating. Still, her fingers almost refuse to wrap around it. They almost refuse to open the door, and inevitably face those brown eyes.

But they eventually do.

The door is opened with a creak. Charlotte keeping her gaze level with that of a saddened Becky. The Irish woman, standing there, her eyes already pleading with her partner to not slam the door in her face. Her eyes shining like a puppy’s, jaw square and features sharp, yet also somehow soft. The epitome of apologetic. The treasure hunter lingers in the hallway, wearing her favorite leather jacket, an old t-shirt and dark jeans, the same backpack against her torso with a spare bag set by her side. Looking put-together from a vague standpoint, yet equally as fucked by the day’s events. Equally as tired, and wishing to redo it. Except, with Becky’s posture comes an additional, convincing aura. One that seems more confident than she was yesterday. More… deliberate. Conscious of her decisions, and trusting in where she currently stands.

It’s interesting, but Charlotte doesn’t reveal that intrigue.

Initially, the historian’s face is void of emotion. It’s desolate, and she’s biting her inner cheek in hopes that she doesn’t break down. Particularly when shown the already existing apologies within the redhead’s posture.

Then, the blonde forces a smile. “Forces” being an understatement. It even comes with a frail, half-assed gesture of waving to the innards of her apartment. A dull invitation to come in, a bit exaggerated due to how torn up Charlotte looks.

Without apprehension that would’ve been there yesterday, Becky accepts the invitation. No matter how cold it may come off as, she accepts the invitation and steps inside without a second thought. Without apprehension, and stiffness. Allowing the other woman to close them into the space together.

“Charlotte, I know you’re probably upset with me,” she starts without facing her partner. “Again,” her shoulders partly shrug.

Passing her guest, the historian doesn’t respond. Becky senses her lack of anger, her noticeable, overtaking sadness that more so clouds the room. If she didn’t feel guilty before, the woman’s silently frantic nature would definitely damage her psyche. The way Charlotte rubs at her arm as she walks back to the couch, hardly paying attention to the redhead. The way she all but pretends that what happened today really _didn’t_ happen. The way she hasn’t spoken a word, and they’ve shared one glance that was the least bit pronounced. Not like they usually are.

Her tongue wets her chapped lips. Taking a breath, she bows her head, then tilts it to the side. She reminds herself that she came here for a reason, and she’s not turning back now. She can’t, and she won’t.

“But…” Becky speaks carefully, “if it’s okay, I’d like to explain myself.”

There’s a further, unspoken emotion within her tone. The treasure hunter imploring with her partner to hear her out, to listen, to cast judgments after. Although Becky knows that she’s without a doubt hurt the other woman, although she knows that her actions don’t necessarily warrant a listen-to or an understanding… she knows that one thing Charlotte has always wanted is for her to be open. So, she can only hope that’s enough of incentive to get the historian to cooperate.

The request is answered by hesitation. Ocean eyes actually lifting ━ timidly so ━ to look in Becky’s direction. The redhead still standing in the kitchen, lingering there until she’s given the green light to approach. Until her request is granted, and consent is provided for her to wholly enter the blonde’s apartment.

Charlotte’s gaze traces her features. Noting her sincerity, and the various apologies that continue to radiate from where she stands. A solemn expression is paired with a sigh from the historian, her teeth taking her lower lip and nibbling it while she nods.

“Of course,” when she looks at Becky again, the two words are practically mouthed, but they’re genuine and serious ━ decisive, and borderline begging her to explain what the hell went wrong.

The toe of her right boot presses against the ground in attempt to take her over to the couch. It doesn’t get far. As she moves a mere inch, the leather jacket covering her body tugs at her shoulders. Making its presence known again, like a gentle reminder from Paige that she doesn’t need it right now. She doesn’t need that piece of home when she’s bound to sit next to another. So, with a tiny, unseen smile, Becky nods to nothing in particular while shedding herself of that piece of home. That piece of comfort that’s been her go-to for the longest time. For years prior, and probably for years to come. At least, in this case, she hopes it’s her spare home. She won’t be needing that specific comfort if she can get through this conversation, if she can work something out with Charlotte ━ the one person other than her best friend who’s proven to be resembling of a home for as long as she can remember.

Her second bag is tucked next to the hook where she hangs her jacket, dropping her backpack onto the floor for the moment. Until she picks it back up, that is, as she hears Charlotte shut off the TV, behind her. The green backpack’s left strap is clutched in her fist, staring at the vinyl material in thought before puffing out a breath. One that courageously allows the weight of reality to sink in. One that says she’s ready, and she wants to get through this. She _will_ get through this.

The silence of the room stirs as she turns back around, backpack in hand. Taking deliberate steps closer to the couch while observing her surroundings another time. It proves easier than yesterday, and she even lightly grins.

Unlike her initial arrival to the apartment, she’s able to note the various quirks of Charlotte’s domain. Even through the dimmed lighting. The old-looking globe in the corner, the chipped, Aztec-patterned vase holding fake fern leaves inside as some fall apart, the picture of her a few years back while wearing her graduation gown. She notices the white crown molding and other trim framing the walls, separating them from the dark-grey, wood-looking laminate. Multiple shelves with books sitting atop, all organized accordingly and coloring the walls more than the muted blue does. Above them, recessed lighting is built into the smooth ceiling, though their power stays dialed down to create a smoky film within the air. More than yesterday, she admires the overall, low-key chic yet modern vibe that the place gives off. Providing her a taste of heightened expense. Also provided while peering through the window’s panes to see the lanterns within the park across the street lit to make a faint, orange glow appear in circles.

A breath exits her nostrils. _Focus,_ she thinks.

Strangely calculating her movements, Becky sits on Charlotte’s left. A whole, empty cushion keeping them apart on the three-person couch as she sets her backpack beside her boots. She makes sure not to become situated too close, yet not too far. A perfect distance to remain intimate, yet also cautious. Not forcing herself upon the other woman, or even her mere existence within her apartment. Her posture isn’t awkward, in any sense. Body turned slightly, the toes of her boots stay pressed to the floor as her elbows rest above her knees. Pressing into her jeans as her right hand rubs the back of her neck in thought. She turns to the blonde, seeing her pick at her nails in an attempt to stifle her roaming thoughts, or ignore the silence building between them.

Becky goes to open her mouth finally. She goes to say what she’s been thinking about both today and yesterday, although she’s derailed when her gaze locks onto the whiskey bottle set on the coffee table. The almost-empty glass next to it. Both staring her in the face, and rousing her guilt further. Instantly, she feels twenty times worse. Instantly, she knows she’s waited too long in coming back, and she closes her eyes while dipping her head. Nonetheless, she again reminds herself that she came here for a reason.

She came back with one thought in mind: she cannot afford to let this piece of happiness get away.

Another breath exits her throat. Charlotte side-eyes her, rubbing her lips together with a doe-like facade being shown in her partner’s direction. Becky sees it, knowing that it’s time to talk. So, she does.

“When I left this morning… I’m going to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d come back,” the start of her explanation is watery, saddened by her own words. “I won’t lie and say I knew I’d be here right now. I knew I _wanted_ to come back, but I didn’t know what was going on in my head.”

No response. Becky wasn’t searching for one, anyway.

“I remember thinking, and thinking, and _panicking,”_ her eyes widen. “All last night, and some parts of this morning.”

“Why?” Charlotte finds her voice, forehead creased. “What was it about? Did I do something?” she jumps for the questions, clawing for an answer.

“No, you didn’t do anything,” it’s sincere with her eyes sparkling, actually easing some of the historian’s worries as her shoulders relax. “I guess I got too much in my head. Thinkin’ about how this is so new to me.”

During the brief pause, her eyes roam the apartment. Charlotte partly nods, but doesn’t interrupt.

“I’ve been on the run, jumping from country to country for the longest time. Since before Paige died, and then after. I’d only settled down for maybe a week total. A week of not thinking about some kinda hunt,” her chin lowers. “I think that’s also why I keep waking up feeling startled. Because my mind’s settling down, and it doesn’t like that. It doesn’t like not feeling fixated on somethin’. It doesn’t understand it.”

The Irish woman detects her throat tightening. Her words becoming overrun, and somewhat erratic. Internally, her heart beats heavily to the point of almost hearing it between her ears. Against her attempts to calm herself down, it proves to be too much. Something tells her that she should just allow her body to coil itself up, for once. To feel whatever it feels, just for the sake of getting it over with.

Next to her, Charlotte blinks in understanding. Listening to the woman she loves, and understanding as much as she can. She waits, seeing Becky wish to say more.

“So, what we talked about when we were walking through Avery’s tunnels…” there’s a pause. “It’s not that keeping myself in one place is boring, per se, but it’s hard for me to fathom. I don’t know anything else,” she turns to Charlotte. “I don’t know how to make something so new work considering how fast my mind goes. And… I don’t know how to communicate that. I don’t even know if you’ll be able to keep up with that, honestly.”

The confession is displayed with a growing lump in her throat. Shrugging one shoulder, in the process. Totally dismissive of everything they’ve worked through, from Charlotte’s perspective.

Regardless, the blonde isn’t upset about it. She’s not mad, or irritated. She’s not even sad, at this point. Sure, the redhead’s frustration in regards to herself lead her to ignore what they’ve accomplished together, but Charlotte always knew it wouldn’t be easy. Not with Becky, certainly. Not with someone so mislead, so broken in certain aspects.

Thus, with a tiny smile, she offers her rebuttal.

“Isn’t that for me to decide?”

Becky looks at her, eyes shimmering with innocence. A shyness, too. She watches Charlotte’s lips curve into the lightest, promising smile. One that, sure, is still pained, but also a mild happiness that explains she’s at least relatively comprehensive of what’s going on. Actually, it’s as if the blonde knew, before she even got here. Nevertheless, she finds the strength to answer what’s been on her mind for a while ━ even hidden beneath the surface of her initial panic.

“I didn’t want to make a promise that I wasn’t sure I could keep,” Becky flashes her a bittersweet grin. “I didn’t want to say I could stick around, and suddenly…”

“You are not your father,” it’s said with the same, gentle smile.

Now, her understanding is undeniable. It’s self-explanatory, and supported by words the treasure hunter has very seldom spoken. Even without Becky verbalizing it, Charlotte has made it clear that she’s aware of the underlying trepidation and the reason for it.

The blonde continues, “And, sure, it’s not easy for you. I get it. But you’re still not him. I believe you can handle anything, if you just give yourself the chance to. Trust me on that.”

A tiny, caught off-guard nod is given. A shaky laugh, as well. Giving the world a good chuckle for nothing specifically, but just at the overall events that lead them here. How everything has gotten so twisted, so suddenly. Even in her efforts to start a new life, or some reborn version of herself.

“What made you come back?”

Charlotte’s question derails her thoughts. Making sure they don’t overrun their conversation before it truly begins. Honestly, Becky wishes to thank her. Then again, that means they’re bound to discuss deeper matters that she’s hardly ever thought about, prior to this.

“First, I didn’t want to leave things like I did, years ago,” licking her lips, she takes a deep breath before collecting herself. “I didn’t want to keep you in the dark, or let you wonder where I’d gone. After what we’ve worked through recently, it was terrible enough walking down the hallway to leave the apartment.”

She stares past Charlotte to look at the door, eyes brimming with tears. They’re blinked away, Becky trying to refocus ━ quietly so. Reserved, as she keeps her tone flat and almost whispered.

“I just couldn’t stick around and risk snapping, or breaking down, or making you think it was your fault. Which fucking sucks that I did, anyway.”

Her hands are brought to her face. Pressing her fingers into her eye sockets in self-directed annoyance. She could kick herself, quite frankly. Although her strength ━ or lack thereof ━ wouldn’t allow her to leave a note or send a text, she knew she should’ve. Even at the risk of it being a simple “I have to think.” But, in her uncanny, stupid ways, she━

“Is there anything I can do?”

The blonde’s kind voice causes her hands to drop from her face. Her lips part, too, as she’s practically stumped by the random question. The question that’s full of care, and attempt to fix things. Because, really, they both know they need to fix it. Hopefully together, but, either way, something has to give.

Becky’s throat tightens, lips sealing. Charlotte takes it as dismay, or rejection of the offer. Her hand reaches for the redhead’s, eyes prematurely begging her to reconsider.

“I’m not letting you leave again, so what is it?” her body shifts closer onto the middle cushion, frame slightly bent. “Please.”

This time, the Irish woman licks her lips in thought. Eyes shy, and darting back and forth between their hands and Charlotte’s sheer selflessness. There’s something that sits on the tip of her tongue, wishing to be said. It’s what she came here to say, and what she’d been thinking about for hours. Almost since she left, in fact. Here, she’s about to spill it. She’s about to say what’s on her mind, and she’s about to do it with a smile. A pleading one, at that.

Again, Charlotte beats her to answer.

“Becky, I love you,” the three words are both sincere and urging her to say something, getting the hunter’s attention with her eyes lighting up. “I’m _in_ love with you. I have been for a while. Maybe from the very beginning, as cliché as it sounds,” Charlotte shakes her head, bowing it. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, the historian collecting herself.

“Even when I didn’t want to be,” it’s said under her breath, the admission bittersweet. “I couldn’t find it in me to say it on the island, for… whatever reason, but… here we are,” she, overall, grows softer, and a newer smile appears. “I love you.”

An unplanned-for wave of hesitation responds to the bombshell words. A tiny smile on Becky’s face, disrupted when she clears her throat. In total, it’s a reaction that gives Charlotte the wrong impression. With no reciprocation, with the redhead’s off-putting demeanor and lack of verbalized response, the historian’s heart falters.

Not for long, though. Becky doesn’t let it happen. Not when she sees the wheels turning behind Charlotte’s dimming eyes. It’s not what she intended to happen, at all, and she wants to make sure her partner understands that.

“There is something you can do,” Becky treads carefully. “It’s just an idea, and it’s a stretch. Actually, it’s a wee bit insane, but it’s…” her tongue wets her lips again, a tremor in her voice. “I’m serious about it.”

The other woman waits, gaze narrowing. She feels confused, intrigued, and invested in the treasure hunter’s mysterious attitude change. But, it all pales in comparison to what she’s hit with when she hears Becky’s following, hopeful request. A request made with such candor, such a childish smile on her face that Charlotte nearly melts.

“Marry me.”

Automatically, her mouth opens. Then, it closes.

“I…” she stops, letting out a shaky, amused laugh to cover up her nerves. “You just ran away from my apartment without a word, yet you want to get married?”

No trace of rejection is found within the question. It merely comes with a quirked eyebrow, a silly smile that’s wondering if Becky thought this through ━ which she has.

“I know, I know I did,” brown eyes close tightly before fluttering open again. “Just… hear me out.”

Becky scoots closer atop the couch. Slimming the distance between them, and turning her body a fraction more. Just enough to hold the blonde’s hand with a tad firmer grip, just enough to provide an ounce more seriousness to the conversation. Because she _is_ serious about it, and needs to convey that. It’s what’s been on her mind, all day. It’s why she, ultimately, took so long to return.

“I’m not giving you an ultimatum, Charlotte, or saying this is the only way it’ll work. I want you to know that, upfront,” a tiny, curt nod is given. “This isn’t…” she hesitates, “this isn’t me saying if you reject the idea that I’ll walk away. I’m _tired_ of walking away.”

A familiar, genuine sparkle is shown in her eyes. Charlotte can tell that she means it. Especially once a tiny, half-smile tugs at one corner of Becky’s lips, and she mutters an additional “And that’s part of why I know it’s right.”

The blonde swallows hard, feeling her heart swell.

“Not to mention being drained of blood and on the cusp of death kinda makes you realize what you’ve been missing,” it’s more so mused beneath the Irish woman’s breath, owning her fear of nearly dying.

When her eyes lift to a blue-green color again, her seriousness resumes. Her vehement begging of her partner to accept.

“Charlotte, I didn’t just come back tonight to explain myself. I came back because I made this decision, and I needed you to hear it as soon as possible. I came back knowing that I _can_ make this promise to you and actually keep it,” it’s whispered, soft-spoken and real. “Listen, I _know_ it’s fast. I know we’re doing this ass-backwards. All of it.”

They share a brief chuckle, though hardly heard between them. The smiles remain. Faintly so, yet still there.

“But I also know that I can’t deal with a slow pace. It scares me. Just as much as exposing myself, or letting myself feel. It’s that crumbling wall, and the unknown,” the ensuing grin is terrified, although accepting of it. “Going slow… I don’t know what the ending will be, and more time gives me room to panic about it. The thought of you maybe getting sick of my antics, my indecisiveness, or getting bored when I’m too basic, or leaving for no reason, and I━”

“I’ll marry you.”

The way Becky’s thoughts are practically seen tumbling from her mind almost causes Charlotte to snort. Not to mention the redhead’s absentminded “What?” that’s asked as she eases her head forward.

A laugh actually trips out. Watching Becky’s mouth stay open, her inner musings and explanations turned to mush within an instant.

“I said I’ll marry you.”

She blinks. Her eyes shift elsewhere, off to the side. There’s a tiny creasing of her forehead before her eyebrows raise. Going through an array of emotions to the point of Charlotte wanting to tease that she can give her a minute to process. In the end, she doesn’t need to.

“Yeah?” the Irish woman asks, a growing smile on her face.

“Yeah,” it’s mirrored.

Still, the treasure hunter can’t find the wherewithal to fully respond. To fully react, even. When Charlotte sees her unwavering speechlessness, she decides to take control of the conversation. At least for the time being.

“I’d love to marry you, Becky.”

It’s said as she maneuvers her body across the middle cushion. Scooting closer, then draping her legs over her partner’s right thigh so she’s mostly sitting in her lap. Left arm around her shoulders, and right hand playing with the other woman’s fingers. A comfortable position that also allows for Becky’s injured side to stay free of pressure and friction.

Once settled, Charlotte studies her features. The eyes staring back at her, both lovable and stunned that the historian would actually accept her proposal after what’s happened today. The blonde can tell that’s what she’s thinking, too. Another, tender smile is given. An accepting nod, to boot.

“We’ve been through hell and back together, and there’s no one else I’d ever want to do that with. Even before you, I would’ve never gone through what I’ve done by your side,” she whispers, left hand absentmindedly playing with crimson hair. “You’re it for me.”

They share a smile. Charlotte’s falters, first. Not in a bad way, but in a thoughtful sense. She feels Becky’s right arm wrap around her waist, pulling her closer.

“I told you we’ve wasted too much time, and we have a lot to make up for,” Charlotte regains her attention. “I don’t plan on getting sick of you, _ever._ No part of you could make me leave, or let that wall crumble. We’re going to figure this out together, just like everything else. No matter what,” reaching up, she brushes some stray hairs behind the woman’s ear. “But we have a _lot_ to learn about each other. Are you sure you’re ready to do that while married?”

“We’ve got to learn about each other one way or another since you said you’re not leavin’. Might as well have a little fun while doing so.”

She chuckles, “That’s a good point.”

“Besides,” it’s said through a wistful sigh. “I’ve got nothin’ to hide. Not anymore. Nothin’ exciting to share, either, come to think of it.”

“Doubtful,” the historian’s reply is pointed, leaning closer with a pair of lecturing eyes until they ease up. “But you’re right,” she rubs her lips together. “If you can make me that promise, then I can make you the same.”

A shyness appears within Becky’s eyes. Not necessarily a sadness, nor a bittersweet emotion. Nothing conflicting, either. It’s more so an apparent timidity about her following thought. Her following confession, brought on by something deeper. Something she’s been harping on for a while, and something she’s been paying attention to. Even against her will, or her intentions. In fact, she’s tried her hardest to stay away from the thought. Now, as she lets herself feel to the fullest, she’s able to delve into those former recollections and wonderances in order to help figure out herself and their growing relationship. She knows, if they’re going to stick together, that she has to be honest with both Charlotte and herself ━ no matter what the cost, like peeling back her layers and exposing the pulsing grievances that never fade.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents,” her admission derails the topic, Charlotte attentive while playing with Becky’s fingers. “Their love, and… how my mom fought her hardest against her depression, only to lose out. I’ve been thinking about how I can’t let those demons win against me,” her eyes lift to an ocean color. “I want to reach the top peak of happiness. With you. I want to finish what my parents couldn’t.”

While trying not to cry, her throat tightens. Charlotte senses it, dragging her nails across the back of her partner’s neck.

“I have to carry this legacy through and through. I have to honor it, and stop loathing my past,” the Irish woman speaks mainly to herself. “But I’m going to do it right. I’m going to stay fulfilled, in my own way of it. Mentally, emotionally, physically. And not just about the hunt.”

A smile is granted, Charlotte feeling her chest warm from Becky’s confidence and optimistic thinking.

“I’ve forever known that love can’t save you. It’s not always a saving grace, or something that erases your pain. _Depression,_ much less. My mom loved me, yet look what happened,” when the redhead looks at her partner, she’s given a sad response ━ albeit full of confirmation. “But I think, if you’re lucky enough, it can still make a big difference. If you make it work, it can save you. It can change you, at least. I know your love’s changed me.”

Her growing smile is mirrored. Also earning misty eyes with Charlotte biting her lower lip so she doesn’t lean in too prematurely, too quickly to erase Becky’s ongoing explanations and recollections. Still, the treasure hunter stares at her. Thinking deeply, with her lips parting. Until she’s able to speak again, even through a choked-up voice.

“And I hope you know I love you just as much. Because I do. I really do,” even the statement is enraptured, full of love and adoration. “No matter what I’ve done in the past, this’ll be my most important adventure. _You_ will be my most important adventure. I promise I’ll be open, and I’ll be honest. I promise to keep you happy,” it’s ended with a whisper, then a following, mouthed addition. “That’s all I want.”

The historian attempts to hold off her beaming smile by biting her lip. No avail. At this point, she knows nothing will help the overwhelming, happy emotion. The total, moonstruck emotion. The love-drunk emotion. All of the above, and even beyond.

“So, if you mean it…” Becky speaks lowly, “you’ll marry me?”

“Of course I mean it,” it’s whispered. “After all, what’s one more leap?” she smirks, covering her desire to lean in and erase their draining proximity by humoring them.

Except, in initial response, Becky rolls her eyes. She scoffs, too. Playfully, sure, but enough to cast judgment on her partner.

“Okay, _that_ was corny.”

“And yours wasn’t?”

An eyebrow is quirked at Becky. The Irish woman making a thinking face that’s automatically erased when she feels sensual fingertips pushing more hair behind her ear. Getting her attention, and obviously so. A tell-tale sign that the historian is tired of talking, and tired of feeling suffocated by the thickening air surrounding them. Admittedly, Becky feels the same amount of exhaustion. She feels the same magnetism between them, begging them to finally seal the proposal with a heated kiss. With a gesture that’s both heavily intentioned yet lighthearted. As promising as Becky’s words were. As promising as Charlotte’s words were, as well.  

Swallowing her nervousness, the treasure hunter doesn’t prolong their wait anymore. She shakes her head free of the ramblings, free of the fallout from thinking so heavily for the extent of yesterday and today. She clears her mind, then gives into her desires. All at the same time that the blonde does.

The curled arm around the historian’s waist tightens as she brings her closer. All the while, Becky leans closer when she feels a gentle hand cupping her cheek. A thumb brushing against her skin, and their mutual wishes closing the gap between them. Letting their lips meet again, chastely so.

For a second, they linger there. Their lips departing for a split second, just long enough to remember the circumstances of the kiss. The heightened stakes, and the proposal that just happened. How they’re now engaged, how they’re now working to build a solid foundation to an everlasting relationship. A full-blown _marriage._

At the thought, Becky leans in again. No longer afraid, no longer terrified of the consequences of overthinking. As far as she’s concerned, Charlotte is more understanding than she’s ever imagined. She knew she didn’t give the blonde enough credit, but today was evidence enough that Becky needs to reconsider believing that she’ll be lectured for every little thing. That Charlotte won’t forgive her for the smallest blunders, or even the biggest mistakes. As long as the Irish woman stays loyal, stays true, then she knows the other woman will be waiting.

Except, now, Becky doesn’t want her to wait for anything. She wants it all, in the moment, without apprehension or second-guess. Without pause, and without having her tongue tied into a knot to the point of not being able to share what’s on her mind. From now on, she’ll be open, she’ll be honest. She’ll be dedicated, more importantly, and she’ll prove that, at every chance she gets.

Starting now.

Breaking their gentle kiss, she nudges her nose against Charlotte’s. Staying there, smiling at their proximity and the historian’s breathless state. For once, it seems as though Becky has acquired a solid grip on reality faster than her counterpart. In any other case, she’d smirk at Charlotte’s lidded eyes. Her shallow breaths. Her refusal to back up any further.

Here, she smiles again, and pecks soft lips once more. Then, she makes another confession. She sets up to, that is.

“There is one, _teeny-tiny_ caveat, though,” more space is put between them, enough to look into each other’s eyes, and Charlotte half-heartedly sighs.

“There always is with you,” her eye-roll is joking, though, at the same time, legitimate.

“That’s the spirit.”

Becky’s cheeky response is granted a laugh. One that covers her obvious distraction when it comes to wishing to kiss the redhead again. To dismiss whatever she’s about to say, and proclaim that they can talk more later. She tells herself to settle, though. She tells herself to be patient, and wait for Becky to stop fidgeting below her. The blonde’s eyebrows furrow, seeing her partner reach into her back pocket before something is balled in her fist. Hidden within her knuckles, as brown eyes then fixate back on her.

 _“If_ you mean it like you say you do…” she talks carefully, “you have to wear this.”

Eyes instantly widening, Charlotte stares at the ring pinched between Becky’s fingers. A gorgeous, antique ring. Gold-colored, having decorative grooves and bevels in it. A tealish-green, shining gemstone in the center, being prominent but not too overpowering. It’s obviously aged, obviously expensive and real, and absolutely astounding.

In fact, at first, it takes a while for Charlotte to blink. To actually react to the item without speechlessness, or an overall shocked demeanor. She doesn’t even snicker at Becky’s smug expression, or her look of triumph at surprising the other woman. Instead, the historian is solely invested in the piece of jewelry being offered to her. So much so, she doesn’t even reach for it. Becky has to nudge her into opening her palm. Into creating a bowl in her hand for the ring to be nuzzled into. Finally, she manages.

“Have you had this?” her voice is raspy, not taking her eyes away from the ring now pinched between two of her fingers.

“Yes and no. I’ve owned it for a while, but… after I finished with my little episode this morning,” a weak laugh interrupts her sentence, “I flew to England where I have a storage unit. I keep my extreme valuables in there. Most of my worth, actually. I have a good friend that owns the lot. Naomi. She doubles as a lawyer, too, so it works out,” it’s punctuated by a leftover chuckle.

At her words, Charlotte’s attention lifts from the gemstone that closely resembles her eye-color. Becky smirks. She knows what the historian realized.

“So, this proposal wasn’t a spur-the-moment thing?” there’s a tiny smile as she half-assumes, half-asks.

“Guess not,” the redhead mirrors her gradual acknowledgment, coy about it. “When I realized I finally needed to get my head out of my butt and let you know what, exactly, I want… I knew I needed something physical to make it official, in a way. I thought you’d deserve something.”

Her partner’s gaze floats back to the ring. Observing it, and shaking her head slowly at its metaphorical weight. More than anything, she shakes her head at the fact that Becky planned this. That she spent most of the day flying around the world, just to get this piece of jewelry with a proposal in mind.

On Becky’s side of things, she thinks about her decision. Her day, in general. How, when she left, she was initially fearful. Paranoia was consuming her, nipping at her ankles and suffocating every ounce of her body. She remembers waking up with a splitting headache, throbbing similarly to her side. Unlike the past, two instances where she woke up in a jolt, this mental irritation was more gradual. Sitting beneath the surface, yet reminding her that it exists. It became too much, too quickly.

So, against her common sense to wake Charlotte up for help against the oncoming panic attack and existential crisis, the Irish woman, instead, took her bags ━ took all of her things ━ and she went to sit near a beautiful lake. Another, nearby park overlooking a large, clean lake surrounded by flowers. A stone bridge arching atop it, and reflecting into what resembled a whole circle from far away. Even within the sole moonlight, the early-morning sun attempting to rise, she could see its full beauty.

With an aching heart, she sat her two bags against the stone bridge’s peak. She leaned against the railing, and overlooked the water. There, her reflection stared back at her against the black surface. It was faint, but enough to make out. Enough to frown at, enough to try to ignore. When her attempts at ignorance didn’t pan out, she pulled her mostly ruined journal from her backpack. The journal that had been taken to Avery’s island, and practically destroyed by every gallon of water they fell into.

Against her initial wish to ease her mind by observing her sketches, by indulging in memories of common, pirate structures… it brought about different recollections. Different gatherings, and far more important ones.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Charlotte. The historian’s smile, her happiness, her laughs, even her sadness and her sympathy. She couldn’t stop hearing the woman’s reactions of every kind, her unbridled love when it came to the journal held between her hands.

That’s when she knew she had to do something. And, if the journal wasn’t enough of a kick in the pants to get her act together, the destruction of her already-crumbling resolve came minutes after.

A tiny ladybug landed on her shoulder. The shoulder of her leather jacket, hugged tightly to her body. Originally an attempt at finding a solid peace of mind, yet, in the end, turning into something bigger. Becky smiled at the bug, raising her shoulder an inch while humming at it. Saying “Hello,” in a way. Then, her lips parted, and she found symbolism in something so minor, so random. So obvious, too.

 _“Jesus, Paige, what am I doing?”_ she spoke to herself and the small bug. _“What would you say, huh? ‘You’ve got to get your head outta your ass, babygirl,’ right? Tactful as ever.”_

Her eyes lifted to the darkened sky. The purple hue of it, and the indigo body of it. Within seconds, her head began to nod. Eyes dumbfounded, a faint smile curving her lips. Staring at the water beneath her, and at herself in the reflection.

 _“You’d be right, too,”_ Becky’s mouth stayed open, like she’d suddenly been hit with everything, all at once. _“God, what_ am _I doing?”_

Helping the ladybug from her shoulder and onto the railing using two fingers, she picked up her bags with a hastiness. Without wasting another second, she knew what she had to do. Running from the bridge, she knew where she was going. Above all, she knew she wasn’t returning to Charlotte empty-handed.

She begins to smile again, looking at the ring between her partner’s fingers.

“Didn’t take long before it hit me, and my gut knew. This was it,” the whisper is borderline incredulous, feeling impacted by the realization. “I knew I had to go get it, no matter how long it took me today. At the risk of extending my leave from your apartment.”

Charlotte breathes out a laugh. Looking closer, she continues to appear baffled. Totally struck by the object’s beauty, and the idea that Becky wants her to wear it. Something so immaculate, so indescribable.

So _thoughtful._

“It’s incredible,” her amazement is clear, never fading ━ until her eyes lift in mild suspicion. “If you’ve had it… I assume it came from somewhere,” with a digging grin, her gaze squints into that of inquisition.

Becky doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“From someone,” the specification is whispered, pausing while curious eyes fully look at her. “My mother.”

Opposing Becky’s knowledgeable, tender smile, Charlotte’s breathing stops at the implication. At the Irish woman’s straightforwardness, and at the idea that she trusts the historian with something so massive, so meaningful. Her back even straightens as her eyes refuse to blink. Staring at the treasure hunter, and waiting for something more.

“When I broke into her boss’ house, back then… I left with a few things. Some old journals of my mom’s, and small trinkets. But that,” there’s a memorable glint in her eye. “That was the single-most important piece of my mom that I took back. I wasn’t planning to,” she admits. “I didn’t even know the woman had it until she stopped me from leaving. She placed it in my palm, and I just remember everything that came with it.”

 _“Your mother would want you to have this. It was her most prized possession, after you,”_ she can almost hear the old woman’s smoke-infused voice, years upon years later.

A broken smile appears on her face, bowing her head. She finds the strength to resume staring at the piece of jewelry, trying to keep the conversation light.

“She used to always wear it on a chain around her neck,” Becky continues, albeit quietly. “The only thing she never _stopped_ wearing. Except for very few occasions. In those times, I’d sneak it and hide away with it. It always fascinated me. The grooves, and the bevels. The jewel in the center,” she smiles, vaguely pointing to the piece.

Charlotte’s eyes flicker between her partner and the piece of jewelry. Feeling like she’s on the brink of crying, but holding herself back from doing so.

“A few times, she’d caught me. She wasn’t mad in the least bit,” the Irish woman recalls with a childish grin. “Instead, she’d sit down with me in the garden, and she’d tell me about the legend of El Dorado. The lost city of gold━or everyone thought until she discovered it was actually a statue. That’s where she got it. Around the site of the legend, somewhere in the jungles of South America. Her first, major treasure.”

During the brief silence that tails her story, Becky thinks about how she used to try ignoring the sentiment and the memories that came with it. The subject burnt her. All she could think about was how things turned out. How ━ if she was her mother’s first and foremost prized possession like that woman said ━ she was abandoned. Left to survive on her own, even as a young child. Because of that, because of her confused anger about it, the ring stayed secure within her storage unit. Abandoned, just like she was.

To Becky, it never made sense. The fact that she was tossed to the wolves, despite apparently being her mother’s most important possession. Hell, to this day, it still doesn’t make sense. But, in a way, not making sense is what, ultimately, is the only thing that does.

Love is tricky. It’s always tricky. Love isn’t a one-track emotion, or as clear as people make it out to be. It’s not easy, either. Recently, she’s learned the notion more than she ever thought she would. She’s been taught it, more than she ever believed someone could find the headspace to. Courtesy of the blonde sitting in her lap, continuously showing her how love and respect work. How understanding works, and how it all makes you into who you are. How you operate, and how you _co_ operate. How you handle tricky situations, and work with the hand you’ve been dealt.

With Charlotte’s attacks against her resolve, against her formerly upstanding walls surrounding her mind, Becky has come to realize that the ring’s sentiment and what comes along with it is something she’d like to share. It’s sentiment that she should be proud of remembering. After everything, she is proud to be her mother’s daughter. She is proud of her genetics, no matter how difficult they may be to deal with, sometimes.

So, maybe Lacey was a lot of things. Maybe she was a villain, and a terrible person. However, she did hold a point: Becky has a gift for this life. She may not have wanted it before, and in the future she may still despise her name in some circumstances, but it’s something she can learn to control, and to enjoy. With Charlotte by her side, she can definitely manage.

Soon, a fragile gaze lifts to hers. A questioning one. Eyes that ask her if she’s sure, if she’s one-hundred-percent positive about giving something so important away.

Becky tilts her head to the side, not straying from answering those questions before they entirely culminate.

“You’re significant,” her eyebrows raise. “She’d want me to give it to you. To my most important adventure.”

The other woman swallows hard. With a relenting nod and a mouthed “Okay,” she fiddles with the ring. Thinking for a moment. Then, she tests the waters by slipping it onto her finger. Becky smirks.

“Lucky fit,” the blonde quirks an eyebrow, then narrows her eyes at the other woman’s smug attitude.

 _“There’s_ some symbolism for ya.”

She smiles big, ending with her lips rubbing together. A thoughtful action, brought about by also squinting in faux curiosity. Faux suspicion, and musing.

“Wildfire Becky Lynch? Getting tied down?” Charlotte speaks mysteriously. “Hm.”

“How coy,” her partner smirks. “All fire’s wild yet we still keep candles.”

“You’re my candle?”

The Irish woman laughs, “I’m your candle.”

“And I’ll be…” the historian tip-toes along the subject, overly happy about the formulating title, “your wife.”

They both beam at the term. Charlotte drags her fingertips along the back of the treasure’s neck, thinking while pressing her tongue to her inner cheek. Becky traces her features, memorizing them while waiting for whatever the other woman is bound to say.

“Huh, a modern-day pirate and a historian,” blue-green eyes partly narrow. “Interesting combination.”

“If I recall correctly, I’m not the one who left that island with gold in her pocket.”

At the pointed rebuttal and her partner’s face easing forward, Charlotte smirks with an uncanny resemblance of pride. A mixture of triumph and cockiness, too. Soon, her attention shifts back to Becky. She eyes the redhead skeptically, wondering what she’s thinking.

“Dealing with me…” Becky sucks in a sharp breath, wide-eyed for a moment. “It’s not gonna be easy, you know.”

Instantly, a tender yet understanding smile is given. Hints of acceptance within the expression, lying beneath. Her eyes sparkle.

“Nothing worthwhile ever is.”

The other woman’s demeanor turns dazed and lovestruck. Internally admitting that Bayley was right. She is a lucky person. The luckiest person, perhaps.

“So,” her voice is quiet, “still yes?”

“Are you going to keep asking?” Charlotte raises her eyebrows.

“Mhm.”

She laughs, “Always yes.”

Their proximity and untamed happiness leads the acute humor to fade. To disperse throughout the air, leaving behind their frivolous emotions and the uncontained friction. The heat of the moment.

It all leads them to seal the gap again. Another kiss, keeping them close. Less timidly than in the last instance, yet not lacking its former intentions. Its former thickness, or levels of attraction.

Slipping beneath the bunched fabric of Charlotte’s grey hoodie, Becky’s nails scratch along her lower back. Toying with a patch of exposed skin, loving the coziness of being trapped inside her fiancée’s clothing. Simultaneously gripping against the historian’s bare, right thigh with her other hand. Wholly keeping her in place, while drawing patterns on both areas of skin. Never letting her stray too far, or even a molecule away.

Meanwhile, the blonde mutually brings her closer by cupping her jaw with her free hand. Dragging against the skin of her upper neck, leaving paths of fire in her nails’ wake. Delving further into the kiss, and even tracing her tongue along the treasure hunter’s lower lip. A content sigh exits her nose when the Irish woman pulls her impossibly closer. Almost fully into her lap, sitting across her thighs. All while tactful fingers curl against her body, beneath her hoodie and against her upper leg. At the combined feelings swarming her body, Charlotte feels the impulse to arch her back slightly when she’s reeled in. Slipping her tongue past her lover’s, then kissing her harder. Even taking her lower lip between her teeth, then releasing it so she can go back to reveling in their shared temperature. All mental restriction lost between them. Replaced with sheer desire to make up for lost time. To make up for the past day, and even yesterday when their awkwardness was at an all-time high.

Becky’s lips seem more driven, more confident today. Her body language: more decisive, and ready to get what she wants. Controlling, in some perspectives, and overpowering. _Convincing,_ too. Even more than when they spent the night together, back on the island. Here, she seems… _sure._ Not to say she was unsure, then, however the current scenario speaks volumes in regards to how the redhead has mentally grown. How she doesn’t believe she’ll shatter everything she touches. How she has a clearer mind, and she knows what her purpose is. How she’s not fighting her legacy anymore. Her own, individual legacy that has nothing to do with her family name. Now, she’s her new-and-improved self while remaining the Becky Lynch that Charlotte has always loved.

God, how she’s missed this fiery side of her. This courteous, yet courageous side. In all areas of her personality.

A smirk curves the blonde’s mouth, interrupting their lip-lock without warning. When Becky attempts to keep kissing her, though, she has to separate them a bit more ━ much to her displeasure, also apparently Becky’s, judging by how she tries to lunge closer again. The historian gives in to her attempts, though gifting the woman a basic peck. Then another. And another.

“Can you just━” Charlotte goes to speak, but Becky fights to kiss along her jawline, “━do me a favor?”

It comes out strained, through pinched-together teeth. A half-assed attempt at controlling the conversation while Becky proves all the more capable of dictating its end. The hand beneath her hoodie gliding upwards, tickling along her spine as fingertips also wander along her upper thigh. Every ounce of touch, gradually numbing her strength.

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” it’s muffled, punctuated by two, open-mouthed kisses pressed near her pulse point. “Anything, baby.”

The redhead’s answer is a plain case of getting the interruption over with. Perhaps negating it, entirely, as long as she can get Charlotte to focus elsewhere.

Successfully, a pleased yet pained exhale escapes through the crack of the historian’s lips when a warm mouth trails down her neck. Wet lips kissing her there, beneath her jaw, then traveling along the area’s length. Charlotte doesn’t help it, either. Not when she automatically tilts her head to the side. Not when she exposes the area more, welcoming the treasure hunter to continue. Until she realizes what she’s doing, at least.

Inconspicuously, the blonde returns to her normal posture so she can catch onto needy lips. Kissing the other woman hard, and even pulling her closer by dragging her fingers through crimson hair. She tugs on her bottom lip until it pops back into place. A final try at stunting Becky’s impending energy and their inevitable friction before it truly bubbles.

Like she’d planned, brown eyes flutter completely shut at the feeling. Stunned by the nipping sensation against her lip, not to mention the idea of being caught by her lover. Nevertheless, once it diminishes and she goes to lean back in, a firm, pointer finger is pressed to her lips.

Everything derails, and her eyes open to see a serious, playfully lecturing Charlotte staring back at her. Eyebrows raised, and waiting for the Irish woman’s undivided attention. Once she has it, she continues.

“No more awkwardness,” there’s a gentle tap against her mouth, Charlotte speaking earnestly. “Yesterday was terrible, and you felt like a stranger. I didn’t like it.”

“I didn’t like it, either,” settling down, the admission comes smoothly, along with the subtle shake of her head.

“You didn’t want to mention it yesterday, or explain why it happened?”

“Figured it was an adjustment period, or…”

“Or you weren’t cut out for being so domestic,” the historian fills in the blank, being shown a tight-lipped smile. “So, tonight, you decided to totally dive into those waters instead of dipping your feet in.”

It’s amused, said with a laugh, and the other woman shares in the humor.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess I did,” her grin lightens, but doesn’t disappear. “I want it all. With you.”

“All my baggage?” it’s asked with a smirk, also narrowed eyes.

“The whole lot of it, I’ll help carry.”

There’s a pause, Charlotte’s mouth opening. It stays that way as her smirk transfers to Becky, the blonde slowly shaking her head.

“Did you just imply I have a lot of baggage?”

Her smug persona remains as she eventually receives an eye-roll. Tailed by a brief kiss, pressed to her lips and lingering before they depart again.

“Thank you for helping me carry it,” her mouth ghosts past the Irish woman’s, then provides her with another, short peck.

“So, to start this new life of ours...” her partner whispers, dragging out her statement with a cheeky facade, “how about we have that date tomorrow?”

Traces of hopefulness are written across her features. Smiling warmly, teeth shining happily. Charlotte raises her eyebrows in intrigue, definitely absorbed by the notion of going on an official date. Then again, it’s not like Becky is supposed to be so up-and-about considering her side injury.

“I’d like that,” she mirrors the lovable expression, “but… you should be getting rest because of your side, Becks. You’ve already been mobilizing too much with it,” it’s spoken pointedly, with the dip of her head. “Let’s not forget that wasn’t a small wound, _and_ you had surgery to extract a _poisonous_ metal.”

“I’m fine, Charlotte, I swear. It’s hardly hurting today, I’ve been taking the antibiotics━against my will, might I add━and I’m feeling good. Better than good, actually,” soon, her tone falls into a quiet, shy stage that’s overly convincing. “I want to take you on that date I promised.”

At the lightness in her eyes, in her persuasive smile, Charlotte sighs before nodding. Initially, it’s a slow transition. It’s more so relenting. Then, it becomes genuinely anticipating of the date.

“Okay, okay, I accept your offer.”

The other woman beams at her answer, only pushing the reaction to the back of her mind when she sees Charlotte beginning to lean in. She mutually goes to kiss her back, to connect their lips again and maybe not talk for a while after, but she’s instead met by the historian’s nose brushing against hers. Nudging closer, yet their lips never touching. An intentional tactic set by her fiancée, the Irish woman being batted back and forth. There’s a smile on Charlotte’s face, too. A knowing smile, casually turning into a newfound smirk. Deviousness covering her body language, especially when she brushes their lips together, yet doesn’t keep them touching.

Even more so when Becky hears her next question.

“Should I wear what I did, the night before we left for the island?”

The redhead’s lips part. Eyes fleeing their lidded state as they open to look off to the side. Attacked, and put on the spot. When Charlotte backs up, her smirk is now full-blown and insightful. Revealing, as well. Particularly seeing flashes of remembrance spark within brown eyes, being clear that she remembers the look. That dressy, business-like look with her makeup fully done, hair sitting nicely. Those black dress pants and high-heeled boots. Most of all, that fitted, white blouse. Those three, undone buttons that were expected to get Becky’s attention ━ which they did.

“I saw you staring,” the blonde smiles with her lips against her lover’s. “It was a nice compliment, I’ll admit. Kinda wanted to use it to my advantage, you know?”

“Yeah?” it’s caught in her throat, practically mouthed.

“Mhm,” a one-sided, chaste kiss takes place as Becky’s eyes don’t close, and she can’t find the strength to reciprocate. “Maybe this time I’ll get the chance to.”

A shaky, caught off-guard breath is given. Becky trying her hardest to fend off Charlotte’s attacks by rerouting the conversation.

“Weren’t we just discussin’ how I shouldn’t be mobilizing too much?”

The woman sitting across her lap snickers at her obvious strides to gather her crumbling resolve. She shakes her head, then tilts it to the side. Gaze squinting, and making matters worse.

“I only meant maybe I could get dessert out of tomorrow night, too. Not just dinner,” she whispers. “Where is your mind, _baby?”_

Becky bites the tip of her tongue, shaking her head.

“Yeah, that remark wasn’t much better, either, love.”

She’s given a quirked eyebrow, Charlotte leaning closer.

“Trust me, I know it wasn’t,” a shuddering exhale hits her mouth just as she barely connects their lips again. “Don’t worry, my hands are gentle, I promise.”

Unlike before, the treasure hunter’s mouth opens in faux offense. Faux annoyance, and insult. An incredulous reaction that her partner bites her own lower lip at.

“Are you stealing my lines, Charlotte Flair?”

Her eyes widen, admitting, “They’re pretty good lines.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s why I use them.”

“I like to think I use them better.”

 _“You_ like to think that.”

“Whatever, Hot Head.”

It’s designed to be passive, the historian brushing off the conversation. Although, in the end, Becky extends it. Muttering beneath her breath, and pretending she didn’t say anything as she forcibly turns away. Chin raised, and eyes roaming the dimmed room.

“Same to you, Your Majesty.”

The blonde pauses, glaring.

“Try-hard.”

“No━”

When she faces the blonde again, her lips are caught and the words fall from her mind. Dissipating without remnants left behind. Shoulders slumping, too, at the abrupt relief from kissing Charlotte again. She sighs into it, body uncoiling as her arm wraps tighter around her lover’s waist. The hand on the back of her neck holding her close, the other grip on her cheek not letting her leave too early. Softly so, this time, their pace being serene and calm. Sensual, for a better term. Until Becky’s oncoming grin breaks the moment, and Charlotte is left to completely stop it.

“Tonight… we’re sleeping closer than yesterday.”

Their foreheads lean against each other, Becky nodding. A love-drunk reaction, hardly appearing to understand what the other woman is saying while also registering everything she means.

“The closest,” the Irish woman mutters.

“And, tomorrow, I’m waking up with you actually next to me.”

The fingers trapped inside her hoodie drag along her spine, drawing patterns like earlier. Becky nods again.

“Tomorrow, and every day after.”

“Good.”

Their agreement is sealed by a final kiss. One that Becky wishes to extend, and so does Charlotte. However, with something else in mind, the redhead opts to alleviate the tension by mentioning something else she’d scavenged for today. Something she knew would make the blonde happy, if nothing else did. Hell, if this visit didn’t pan out, if the door was never even opened for her to come inside, she would’ve laid the gift in front of Charlotte’s apartment before walking away. It’s something important ━ a big piece of who the treasure hunter is ━ but it’s something that, without a doubt, her fiancée has taken more of a fascination to. By all means, it may be even more important to Charlotte, than to Becky, herself.

“I also brought back a few things I think you’d like to take a look at,” her ensuing grin is shy. “From my storage unit,” she adds, and Charlotte stares at her with child-like curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, Becky leans over to reach for her backpack. The backpack she’d intentionally set next to her feet, propped up against the couch, for this exact moment. The historian waits as she observes Becky rifling through its contents, the flap of the bag obstructing her view. Not for long, though. Not once the treasure hunter’s posture straightens back to its normal state, and ocean eyes are widening at what’s held in her hands.

Her gaze lights up at the object. Looking between the single, presented journal and the person who holds it. Being identical to the last of its kind, she knows exactly what it is. Without a doubt, she knows what she’s staring at the cover of. A twin of the former, like there was a sale on the type of booklet that Becky buys. Like the woman had mass-purchased all of them, at once. Like she knew that, throughout her expeditions, she’d been sketching down various depictions and other memories. Charlotte remembers what the Irish woman said, too. How she had plenty of journals kept within her storage unit, in case the one from the island became ruined. In case it wasn’t decipherable, and the ink bled together.

Becky’s smile grows as she watches sparkling eyes wander back to the object before staying locked on its smooth cover. The edges of this one are curled, as if the book was bent through a form of self-distraction. Being curled into a makeshift telescope, at one point. Nonetheless, it’s otherwise in perfect condition ━ save the dried mud that’s peppered against three corners.

“One of many, too,” the hunter taps the journal’s cover. “This…” she pauses. “It’s my first one ever drawn in. Figured we could start all the way from the━”

She’s cut off in mid-sentence by a teeth-clacking kiss. Becky almost laughs at the mild desperation, the endless _thank you_ ’s packed within the gesture. Charlotte’s extreme admiration and enjoyment when it comes to an extended, inanimate part of her soul. Regardless, the Irish woman enjoys the lip-lock that tapers off into a serene, careful indulgence. Until it’s abruptly finished, at least.

“Wait,” her partner backs up, brown eyes opening to see Charlotte’s gaze narrowing into the resemblance of a challenging glare. “You brought these to sway me in case I didn’t forgive you so easily, didn’t you?”

Guilty eyes look off to the side of the room. Lips pursed, to boot. In the end, she doesn’t even have to verbally confirm the woman’s suspicions. Charlotte rolls her eyes at the silent admission. Though, she can’t hide the ever-lasting grin on her face.

“At least you knew what would make me happy,” the journal is slipped from between Becky’s fingers, then carefully held between her palms.

“I sometimes have solid plans,” it’s stated proudly, voice dramatically deepened.

“What would you have done if you showed me these and I was still pissed?” an eyebrow is quirked, Charlotte tilting her head to the side.

“Ehm…” she thinks, making a face. “That’s where the plan ended.”

“Mhm,” the hum is dull, snickering before changing her tune. “You know we’re clearing a shelf off for these, right? I’m not letting them out of the house now.”

“I’d expect nothing less. Though, I don’t know how good my old doodles were. I don’t even remember most of them, actually.”

“Guess we’ll have to look together, then,” her fiancée nudges closer, getting more comfortable as she wiggles herself an inch off of her counterpart’s lap.

“Guess so,” Becky smiles. “It’ll be nice reliving my past adventures with my new one,” she raises her eyebrows, being fully aware of her corny nature.

So is Charlotte, she presumes. The blonde shakes her head with a snicker, ending with her cheeks puffing out through a breath.

“It’ll be nice seeing into your head, for me,” the book’s cover is flipped open using one finger, observing the blank, entrance page.

“Oh, don’t want to be in there, love,” brown eyes widen. “It’s a mess.”

The historian sighs, “Yeah, it is.”

The way Becky’s head whips toward her so abruptly, so rapidly causes her to break out into a large smile. Teeth shining as she laughs at the way the Irish woman forces her eyebrows to furrow in prominent annoyance. It persists for another, ten seconds. An unwavering stare burning into her temple. Finally, gradually, Becky relents. Shaking her head with an eye-roll, and a scoff. Charlotte leans forward and kisses her cheek, then settles again.

“We’ll clean it up,” she says, and the redhead gives her a bashful grin. “Just be patient.”

Pausing, her fingertips stroke the book’s first page: a single sketch of a fern leaf. The depiction detailed for something so simple, the drawn piece of vegetation sat in the middle of the paper. An invitation for everything else that comes after it, like a formal, introduction page. A tutorial, almost. Becky showing off her skills with something so bland, so minimalistic. It reminds Charlotte of what she’s about to see. The anticipation bubbling in her stomach, excited to take this new leap. Excited for a new adventure, both within the imminent pages and, in a broader sense, with Becky by her side.

And, with the acknowledged sensation of Becky staring at her profile, something tells her that the feeling is mutual. Without a doubt, they’re now on the same page. Just like back on the island, yet now at home.

So, turning back to the Irish woman, she grins shyly. The weight of the moment hitting both of them, but neither turning their cheek from it. Not this time. Not ever again.

“Ready?”

Charlotte’s question is so soft-spoken, so careful that Becky takes a moment. Unlike every other time, no spark of fear runs through her veins. Nothing makes her worry, or feel the need to tread carefully. She doesn’t feel spooked, nor nervous about anything to come.

Thus, without her usual hesitation, without her normal pauses and timidity, she shares her answer. The one she’ll be giving Charlotte from now on, no matter what they’re faced with.

“Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that.
> 
> I mentioned how my initial plan was to end the story once they landed back on the mainland. Actually, originally, the outline ended while they were IN the plane, but I wanted one chapter of calmness and settling. However, recently, something was bothering me. I didn't feel that the landing chapter (the 4HW splitting) wrapped up Charlynch's arc as a couple, more so because I think a lot of the story is super ambiguous in the "Will they, won't they?" sense. I believed that leaving it open to "Do they establish exclusivity? Do they walk away? What finally *gives*?" was super... unlike how I normally do things. As a spectator for this story (since I experience it as much as you do), I wanted to see things come to fruition with Becky & Charlotte.
> 
> Their entire relationship has been built upon jumping the gun, individually, instead of going at it TOGETHER. From the beginning, we hear how Becky left Charlotte on the dock because she presumed that Charlotte wouldn't want to continue with her/she wanted her safe. On the island, the first sign of danger has Charlotte like "AHA! I knew you were lying!" So forth. So, in the end, here, we see them finally taking this massive jolt where they can go into a massive situation together -- willingly -- & they're content w/ that pace. It says a lot about Becky's growth that she knows she can promise this, that she's tired of walking away, which is why she made this massive decision & traveled around the world to express it. Likewise, it says a lot about Charlotte that she accepted her proposal & trusts Becky. 
> 
> The thing is: It is fast. It's a fast decision, their relationship went by fast, but that's who they are. That's the identity of their relationship. Looking back, observing their interactions throughout the fic, they've proven to be lovers at odds. They've always wanted the best for each other but never knew how to communicate it. As we can see here, once they find ability to communicate, it's unbelievable & all is right in the world. So, in the end, they took a risk. A major one. It's probably the best one we've seen. After all, we won't get anywhere if we don't take risks.
> 
> Now that everything's in the open, I'll ask again: Would you like to see domestic Uncharted AU Charlynch? More Baysha, too, as it'd be nice to see them develop a bit more? Leave an answer in the reviews (some of you already did, thank you!), then I'd advise you to follow my AO3 so it'll notify you if/when I post a one-shot collection. 
> 
> As for me... today's been like a kick in the throat. I never thought this story would turn into what it did, but I'd be lying if I said I'm disappointed in its 390K+ words/40-chapter quantity (DOUBLE what I've ever written before!). This fic has become my baby. I've been through a lot while writing it. Depressive episodes, panic attacks, frustration, feelings of worthlessness, etc. I've lost many friends since December when I started writing it, I've gained a handful, & I've re-evaluated what it means to be a friend. I've lost a lot of weight, I've gotten healthier, & I've gotten back on my writing grind. Chapters 9 - 15 were posted during a particularly rough patch of confidence, feeling like none of my friends were supporting what I did, & I had been getting feedback from strangers very rarely. 
> 
> But we pushed through! *We made it!*
> 
> I'm now relaxed knowing that I feel my job's done in accordance to Uncharted's rep. The game is such a fantastic one (we followed Uncharted 4: A Thief's End), and the whole franchise is amazing. I suggest -- if you haven't already watched/played -- that you check out playthroughs on YouTube. They're absolutely incredible, like an actual movie. The 4th one is my favorite, I have to say, although the game that comes after (Uncharted: Lost Legacy) is probably tied with it. If you love strong women, I'd suggest that one to get you hooked. If I were ever to write a sequel, that'd be the premise -- a fun tidbit. I promise, you'd never be disappointed looking into those games.
> 
> Thank you so much for watching my writing style expand over the course of these forty chapters. I've evolved as a person & a creator, & it's all I've dreamt of. I have to admit, for once in my life, I feel like I accomplished something super massive. I've contentedly created something I won't forget for a while. To know so many of you connected with my writing & dedicated your time to observing my craft is so overly amazing that I can't put into words. That means more than you know, especially given my low self-esteem. You can really change someone's outlook by just a simple comment or input. I love you all, & I consider you my friends. 
> 
> For now, it's time to let Charlynch have a much-deserved rest. Together. When we're all ready, our beloved, pirate 4HW will be back together again.
> 
> Thank you, times infinity. 
> 
> *Insert fancy signature here*

**Author's Note:**

> Always available for comments/chit-chat @ "wwe-charlie" on Tumblr.


End file.
